Audrey comes back to the present with a small jolt and a sigh as the clock chimes midnight. It isn't unusual for Siegfried to be out this late, and any other night she would have left the light on and turned in by eleven. Tonight, though, her mind won't slow, and her feet refuse to take her to bed. Blame it on the solitude - the twins and Susan are staying with their parents in a nearby hotel for the weekend, and she hasn't seen Siegfried since that morning at 5:00 when he rushed out on an urgent call. Peter and Christine mostly keep to themselves these days, and put themselves to bed hours ago. With the sudden lessening of company, she's had a moment to realize they haven't heard from Tristan or James in a month or more. When was the last letter? Shortly after the new year, wasn't it? James wrote that he missed her Christmas pudding. He said nothing about where he was or where he would go next, which was no surprise nearly three years into wartime. Tristan had been home for two brief days before disappearing again in the early hours of Boxing day. Although he rarely wrote, away on some very hush hush business somewhere in Southern France, they usually got at least an oblique line or two by telegram for special occasions. And yet Siegfried's birthday had come and gone several weeks since with no word. Still, there have been longer gaps between letters. They're probably fine, she consoles herself, for the hundredth time since the start of the war. The anxiety recedes only slightly.
Audrey stirs her tea absently, staring at the sparse pantry shelves. The sight of their meager rations, the chill in the kitchen, the lateness of the hour, and her solitude all raise the specter of her former husband before her again. How many evenings had she sat like this, painstakingly keeping the supper warm and his slippers and dressing gown ready, with no idea when or in what temper he would return?
She has thought of those years with him far more often since receiving news of his death. It's almost as though now that he's gone for good, now the tie has been cut with more finality than she ever hoped for or expected, she is finally able to recall how bad it truly was. She can dwell on it, now that she knows it will never happen again. Before his death, the fear was too strong; even if she had wanted to take out those dark memories and turn them over and try to find some meaning in them, her mind had never let her. She wished sometimes it wouldn't do that - shut down on her when her feelings become too strong. How relieving it must be to let oneself get swept away. But she had done that once, with John, she reminded herself sternly. If he hadn't been killed, she would still be bearing the consequences of that lapse in judgment.
Although, this life, the ultimate consequence of indulging a flight of fancy so many years ago, isn't so bad. She smiles with gentle mockery at her self-censure. She feels infinitely lucky to have the life she does now, a life she wouldn't have if not for getting swept away and marrying that troubled man, if not for Siegfried's deceptively soft heart. And now - even as guilt twists her stomach - now she can rest in it with security. John cannot return to claim her, cannot hurt her anymore. When she lived under his roof, the sparseness of the kitchen, the chill, the loneliness, were laced with fear and insecurity. Now, the pantry is sparse because her home and heart are full. The chill means a worthy sacrifice to provide more coal for the war effort and, in some indirect way, to warm her two boys on the other side of the channel. And the solitude is a vigil, not a torment. The man coming home to her is safety, not threat. Partner, not master.
She blinks in surprise at that thought. Is he not her employer? And yet, less master than her own husband had been. What does that mean? When did either of them last reference her employment, anyway? She'd refused to take wages from the very first month of the war. He stubbornly continued to tuck banknotes in her coat pocket where it hung by the door for months, but every time she found them, usually while out on a walk or errand, she'd pointedly leave it in his Brandt.
"Mrs. Hall," he pontificated one day, cornering her by the coat rack, "I have tried generosity, and I have tried stealth, but as neither of those seem to work I have no choice but to fall back on blunt intimidation. In a moment, I am going to place several banknotes in your coat pocket. If I find them in my reading material later this evening, I will have words with you." He took hold of her coat with finality and made to stuff the bills inside.
She watched him silently with raised eyebrows and pinched lips throughout his tirade. A child through and through, she reflected resignedly, watching him fumble with the coat. She had been sweeping the hall when he accosted her, and the front door was open, letting in the icy air.
"Well if that's the way you want it, I s'pose I have no choice but to remove the possibility of finding them at all," she rejoined, crossing her arms around her broom, "So I'll not be laying a hand on me coat until I can be satisfied there's no risk of finding your mercenary money in the pockets."
He swung around to face her.
"Oh, please, you're better at bluffing than that. I should know, I've made the mistake of playing poker with you far too many times. 'Stop wearing your coat'! Mrs. Hall! It's mid-December, for God's sake. Don't be foolish."
"Oh, foolish, am I?"
Confronted by her set jaw and defiant eyes, he thought better of continuing this line of argument. Pivoting in his approach, he brandished the stack of bills at her.
"Come now, just take your wages. God knows you do more than your share of work around here. Don't turn me into a complete charity case! There's some potential in me yet, surely."
"Mister Farnon," she snapped, "You know as well as I that you haven't collected payment from 90% of the clients you've seen since September. How do you expect me to take money from you that you hardly have? In any case," she added, returning to sweeping with vigor, "what do you imagine I'd do with it? There's a war on, if you hadn't noticed. And I have all I need and more here as it is."
Siegfried, mildly cowed (of course she'd noticed that his payment collection was spotty at best, but it was nice to imagine that he could keep something from her), and disarmed by the casual admission of satisfaction with her life in his home, took a moment to find his tongue.
"Well - well - very well, have your way," he finally blustered. "Foolish of me to suppose I might prevail in my own home for once. But don't think you're off the hook - I plan to pay you in full once this war business is over!"
She cocked an eyebrow at him, not bothering to hide her smirk.
"Oh, stop that," he snapped, stalking back to his desk.
Audrey smiles to herself, remembering the exchange. Perhaps she should let him win an argument now and again, but it's too entertaining to fight with him. A pleasant shiver steals into her stomach. She's become more aware of that renegade shiver over the last several months. She's well accustomed to the warm joy that being with him brings her - she's always treasured their frank friendship, and she's never felt more secure in herself than when she's with him. But this feeling, this giddy tickle, is new. Now, in the safe silence broken only by the soft tick of the hall clock, and fresh from contemplating what her married life once was, she realizes with a warm cascade of anxious elation that he's the partner, friend, and confidante that she once dreamed a husband would be.
Her mind is immediately a confused jumble as the implications of this realization sink in. There's no denying she has feelings for him. That's no surprise; he's always had a special place in her heart, faults and all (and God knows he has faults). But now - now - she has no husband. And he's here, being all the things a husband would be (well, not all, she can't stop herself from thinking, and flushes wildly at the thought), and she's suddenly disquietingly aware of just how deeply she cares for him.
The back door latch scritches and she jumps violently. Siegfried flings the door wide. She's caught completely off guard and feels as vulnerable as a puppy, confronted with the man himself. The reality is less rosy than the concept. He smells like a pigsty, and has already tracked in an ungodly amount of mud. "Blast this goddamn..." he mutters, hopping on one foot to gingerly pull the other foot out of its boot. "First the blasted car, now this bloody ankle -" He hops around to drop his bag and sees her, staring at him with a wide-eyed and completely out of character expression on her face. His foul mood drains out of him.
"Oh! Mrs. Hall! Still up?"
She manages a small smile and nods. Composure. She must have it in her somewhere.
"What's this about the car?" She asks, turning with feigned nonchalance back to her cup. She's overshot the mark and it comes out standoffish.
"Oh, nothing, nothing, just a ditch. Barely got out with my dignity. It's coming down in sheets out there. Ow! Mrs. Hall, could I trouble you...?"
He's hovering awkwardly in the doorway, one shoeless foot in the air. He's clearly in pain. Her concern overrides her confusion and without consciously deciding to move, she's beside him. She wraps an arm around his waist and he leans heavily on her, trying to wiggle his uninjured foot out of its shoe while putting minimal weight on the other. He smells even worse up close.
"Oh for goodness sake, come sit down," she exclaims, abandoning her last care for the clean floors and ushering him into the kitchen. He meekly lets her hustle him into a chair and pull the shoe off. He's left a track of putrid mud and slop across the floor. She should resent it. Her racing heart is a traitor.
"Now, you set there. I'll get a cup for tea and a cold compress," she says, already bustling away to get the cold water bottle from the exam room. It's a welcome reprieve from his suddenly-very-noticeable closeness. Just before reentering the kitchen she pauses and takes a deep breath to steady herself, then does her best to walk with her usual speed to the sink. She fills the bottle from the cold tap.
"Now, however did you manage this?" she asks, kneeling to secure the bottle against his foot with a towel. She's annoyingly aware of the warmth of his skin and the shape of his calf as she pushes up his trouser leg and gingerly pulls off his sock.. His ankle is mottled purple and red, and clearly swollen.
"Some god-fool of a sow. I spend six hours delivering all five of her bundles of joy safely into the world, with no shortage of effort and cost to myself, may I add, and she repays me by treading directly on my leg while I'm incapacitated packing up my bag. Did you stay up for me?"
She flushes at the sudden question and keeps her head down, putting some unnecessary tucks in the towel. It takes her a moment to find her voice.
"Couldn't get the boys off me mind," she says finally, brusquely. "We haven't gotten any letters, have we?"
He shakes his head. "No. Not that I'm aware. But that's hardly unusual, is it? Think of last summer when we didn't hear from Tristan for three months!"
"Hm."
He watches her fidgeting with the towel and smiles slightly, bemused. Is she... blushing? His pulse suddenly feels strong and fast. What did that look on her face mean when he first came in? He was equally prepared for her to throw herself into his arms or run from him in terror. And now this uncharacteristic brusqueness, when usually she's at her most domestic and companionable when he comes in late after a long day. It's likely nothing, probably completely unrelated to him, he admonishes himself, but can't help feeling equal parts giddy and anxious that he might be the cause of her strange behavior - for good or ill.
She straightens and turns briskly to the stove. He hears her readying a teacup and filling it with tea behind him. She sets it in front of him, but doesn't sit down, instead turning back to the counter. Something is certainly afoot. Best have it out in the open.
"Mrs. Hall, have I done something to upset you?"
She turns back, genuinely surprised. "Upset me? No, of course not! Well. Nothing out of the ordinary."
"Flattering as ever." He sips his tea. It's peppermint, her favorite. "Is it the boys that are upsetting you? You seem... out of sorts."
Damn. Not so subtle after all, she thinks. She stares at him for a moment, then quickly sits down in the chair across from him and snatches up her cup.
"No. That is, yes. I'm worried about the boys, is all." She sips the now-cold tea, unable to think of anything else to say.
"Are you sure? You won't meet my eye. You know, Mrs. Hall, you can always tell me if I've blundered into upsetting you. I'll deny I ever said this, but you must know my bark is worse than my bite."
Damn, damn, damn. She feels a blush rising in her face again. How to get out of this without making him feel he's done something wrong? Without meaning to, she meets his eye for a moment. It's so attentive, so concerned, and suddenly she feels that the last thing she wants to do is run. The hiding, the dodging, the not-knowing, seem doomed to expose her eventually anyway; but more than that, they seem truly unbearable. She takes a slow breath. Into the breach.
"Just before you come back... I was just thinking - about… John. And how my life was before. And how... grateful I am. To you. For hiring me, knowing naught about me, and for being so... good. And, well, I just... I thought that's what - that is - how I would've wanted it to be. With John." Her eyes meet his briefly and she quails. He's staring at her with a peculiar look on his face that she can't quite read, but it makes her feel laid bare. "I mean to say, I... I appreciate you, and what we... how we are together, and... it makes me wonder how it would be if we... if… more tea." She stands abruptly, the legs of her chair clattering, and moves with panicky speed around the table toward the stove. She doesn't make it there. Siegfried takes hold of her wrist as she rushes past. Oh dear God, she thinks with complete sincerity, as he gently pulls her around to face him. His look is intent, his focus keenly on her.
"The water will go cold," she protests feebly.
"Hang the water. Mrs. Hall - do I understand you? Do you mean to say that you... that I... that you think we could be... more to each other?"
She stares at him blankly, mind backpeddling madly. This is a mistake. She feels horribly vulnerable and afraid that anything she says is going to bring their relationship crashing down around her.
"Well I..." she starts, and then suddenly becomes aware of how he is looking at her, the fullness of his emotions all over his face: anticipation, trepidation, a general sense of hovering on some great precipice. Well, and so they are, she thinks, the thought crystal clear amidst the jumble of her mind. And she's never been good at leaps of faith in this department.
Siegfried, waiting for the words that will decide his future, suddenly realizes he's a fool to expect them. He knows her better than that. If she meant to say no, she would say it, with great frankness and empathy. That's who she is. But to lay her deepest emotions bare, especially for a man - yes, even this man - that's something he has never fully seen her do. This long pause as she stares into his eyes like a deer in headlights, this terrible suspense without an answer, is an answer in itself.
He stands, forgetting his ankle for a moment, and almost pulls her down with him as it crumples.
"Oof! No, no, nevermind, I'm fine, I'm fine!" as she puts her free hand on his shoulder to urge him back into the chair. He removes it with impatience, determined in his goal. Her heart is galloping and she's equally eager for and terrified of what he had in mind when he stood to face her. Half of her wants him safely in his chair, where he has been so many times while she stood as she stands now, as they have always been; half of her can't bear the thought of interrupting whatever might be happening between them. He hasn't released either of her arms yet; in fact, he firms his hold, straightening as much as he can without putting weight on his left leg.
"Audrey," he says softly and with gravity, "I don't know how this house would run without you. You're the best housekeeper a man could hope for, but more than that, you're my dearest friend, and-"
Those aren't words of passion, are they? What was she thinking? He's going to let her down easy, and she doesn't want to have to bear it.
"It's fine!" She blurts.
He blinks at her in consternation.
"Fine?"
"I spoke out of place. You don't -"
"OUT OF PLACE! Mrs. Hall. When on earth has that ever stopped you before? In any case, it's patently obvious that you are Lord and master of this house and everyone in it, including myself, so don't you dare say another word about that. In fact, you never answered my question, so I'd say the lack of speaking is more the problem here."
"But I said that I - that I wondered if we would... Well, in any case, I overstepped, and I didn't want you to have to let me down!"
"LET YOU DOWN! Audrey, for God's sake, you're a fool if you think I wasn't about to tell you how-" the fight drains from him. Is he truly saying it? Like this? It's out before he finishes thinking the words- "how desperately I love you."
They stare at each other for a long moment. He feels like he's simultaneously floating and freefalling. He can't read her face - she's like a deer in headlights again - but she hasn't recoiled yet. In truth, she feels like her brain has short circuited. Siegfried Farnon - her Siegfried Farnon, employer and dearest friend - looking at her like that, like he... he... loves you desperately, her brain helpfully supplies, and she suddenly feels boneless and light. Her brain seems to be moving through treacle. Oh lord if she doesn't love him too, for all his slovenliness, pride, and bluster. But there's another look on his face - anxiety, anticipation, like he's waiting for something. For what? Oh, right-
"I love you," she blurts.
Another long pause follows. It's out. It's been said. A shy smile makes its way through the wide-eyed shock on her face. He's beaming at her, incandescent and unfiltered. He tugs her toward him gently.
"Do you really?"
She lets herself be tugged. She's beaming too, she realizes. For once, her face is an open book, and he drinks it in. There are mere inches between them.
"Oh, of course I do, you fool," she manages, and then she couldn't say anything else if she wanted to, because he's gently cradling her head in his hands, and his eyes are like home, so eager and full of wonder as he brushes a thumb along the side of her face, and she can feel the warmth of his chest under her hands, and see every mischievous freckle on his nose, and then…
So this is how it's meant to feel, she thinks groggily, and then everything is just Siegfried.
"I suppose I won't pay you those back wages after all," he murmurs into her hair several minutes later. He feels her laughter deep in his chest.
