Fourteen:
A Father's Love

Portia had been remarkably well-behaved on the train; she was fascinated with the scenery they were rolling by, and Harry had taken precautions to get her some anti-nausea medication from the chemist, so they were well-prepared. She'd even eaten a sandwich – egg and cress – along the way. She was bright-eyed, excited, and happy.

All things Harry hadn't been whilst coming back to this ancestral home for quite some time. He looked forward to each excursion with dread, knowing that his grumpy old father didn't (or wouldn't) want to spare the time for his grumpy sod of a son. The only reason he even cared this time was because Harry was bringing novelty with him; someone new to inspect and consider alienating.

David Henry Pearce was good at alienating people. Perhaps better even than Harry was.

Harry wouldn't admit it to anyone but himself, but he was nervous about seeing his father. The last time he'd been up, David had thrown a paperweight and destroyed a priceless stained glass window in the library, all because Harry had refused to leave the Service. That had been in 1998. There had been a few phone calls since then, but never anything important enough to come up.

That Harry was openly seeking his father's approval was something new, something different. It meant that Harry had changed in some fundamental way, and Ruth and Portia were the only reason he might want to change his tenuous, tetchy relationship with his father.

The pulled into the station and Harry said, "The butler will come pick us up."

"What's a butler, dad?"

"Someone who helps takes care of the house," Harry replied.

"Oh. Why?"

Harry smiled and gave her a kiss. "Because it's too big for your grandfather to manage by himself," he said. "There's a butler, three maids, a gamekeeper, a housekeeper, a cook, and a gardener – last I knew."

"That's a lot of people taking care of a house," Portia said.

"It's a big house, love," Harry said softly. A big manor house, full of secrets and lies, envy and deception, and he'd wanted nothing more than to break away from all of it. As the eldest (now only) son, he was set to inherit the albatross round his neck, and he envied his brother Ben the escape he'd made in death. Instead, Harry would inherit the relatively intact Kindwell House and its remaining 300 acres of parkland, good only for raising grouse, deer, and sheep. The dwindling family fortune would also fall into his lap, and he hated every moment of knowing that there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it. The fact that he'd insisted on not being called by his inherited title of 'The Honourable' had actually annoyed the hierarchy of Five, the Home Secretary, and most everyone who knew him in public circles. The fact that he purposefully flaunted his knighthood instead, choosing a life of service to the Queen over service to his family lineage infuriated the Establishment. And he reveled in the defiance.

"Oh," she replied. "Is your dad very important?"

Harry's lip twitched a little. "He sits in the House of Lords," he said wryly. "When he can be bothered to come down to London." When his daughter looked at him with confusion, he said, "It's like America's Congress or Senate, but with a bunch of men in wigs."

"So he's important?"

"Sort of," Harry dismissed. "Now, you need to be on your best behavior. My father doesn't like loud noises, or people sneaking up on him, either. He's a bit stodgy, so he doesn't laugh much or smile much, either, and he definitely doesn't hug people."

"He sounds very… grumpy," Portia said in a very diplomatic, cautious tone.

"He rather is," Harry sighed as they pulled into the station. "But I think he'll like you. Even Graham likes you, and he doesn't like anyone."

"He doesn't like you?" Portia asked.

Harry sighed heavily and grabbed their bags. "No, I'm afraid he doesn't," he said in a wry tone. "He loves me because I'm his son, but he doesn't like me at all for the decisions I've made. I'm afraid your mum is the only person who actually doesn't mind that I'm the way I am."

Portia grabbed his hand and looked up at him. "I love you just the way you are, dad, because you're my dad," she said, smiling.

Harry smiled down at her. "You are entirely too good to be my girl," he said. "You're all your mum."

They disembarked and waited to gather their last two bags, then went to meet their ride. "Ah, hello, Alison," Harry said, shaking the butler's hand. Alison Peterstoke had been a fixture of the household since Harry was married to Jane, and the man who was a scant handful of years older than Harry greeted him with a smile. "We're traveling lightly, as we've to be back in London on Monday," he said.

"Let me take your bags, then," Alison replied. "And who is this lovely young lady?"

"My daughter, Portia," Harry said. "Father doesn't know yet, so I would ask you to not be making comments below-stairs until after they've met."

Portia said, "Is that the butler, dad?"

"Oh, you're American!" Alison exclaimed. "Where are you from, Miss Portia?"

"Los Angeles," Portia replied cheerfully. "Where are you from? You have a funny accent."

Harry placed a hand on her head. "Portia, you can't just tell people they speak funnily," he said gently.

"I'm from Harrogate, m'lady," Alison replied. "It's no problem, Sir Harry – she's young. She'll learn quickly."

Alison helped them into the car and stowed their baggage in the trunk of the Lexus; of course, it was just like David Pearce to have a completely impractical luxury car to drive around to keep up the pretense that the Earl of Bly was just as elegant as his title. Portia didn't think anything of it; her mother drove a Lexus, so it wasn't anything out of the ordinary for her. For Harry, it felt like a death trap.

"Your father is putting you in the Blue Room," Alison said. "And your guest in the Yellow Room."

"Ah," Harry said. "Good choices, unless the roof's leaking again."

"He's had an entirely new roof put on just last spring," Alison said. "He said there's no sense in you inheriting a mess, so he'd better put the money from his stock profits to good use and do some renovating."

"Wise move," Harry commented wryly. "I rather think he got tired of feeling like he'd go underwater in his own home, though."

"You don't think very much of Lord Bly, do you, Sir Harry?" Alison inquired.

"I think that he's a crotchety old man with delusions of grandeur," Harry replied, "but he is my father, so I suppose I should be kinder to him in his old age."

Portia was looking out the windows, smiling, as they drove. After a while, they turned off the main road and onto one of cobblestones that led to Kindwell House – when Harry inherited, the cobblestones would be the first thing to go. He'd get some real pavement in, the kind that didn't destroy your fillings with every jolt.

"Bloody hell," Harry muttered as they hit a particularly uncomfortable spot. "Some things never change – my fillings ache like hell, now. Don't you have a better car for this road?"

"His Lordship insisted I bring the Lexus."

Harry grunted, knowing that he was being punished, even now, for his wayward ways. Stupid old man.

Harry picked up when he saw Ruth's name flash on the screen of his mobile. "Oh, thank god," he breathed.

"Your text sounded urgent," Ruth murmured sleepily. "What's going on?"

"Well, we've been here for hours and my father is still in his sanctuary, doing god knows what," Harry said. "Probably listening to Radio 3 and watching the news at the same time, typing out horrible missives to the papers and ignoring the fact that I'm here at all. He knows we've arrived. He's just punishing me again."

"I'm sure it's not like that," Ruth said softly. She stifled a yawn. "He's probably just having a nap – elderly people do that. Rather a lot, I should think. It's probably nothing to do with you at all, Harry. How is Portia?"

"She's happy as a clam," Harry muttered. "She's thrilled to death to be reading some of my mum's books and I think if my father doesn't send for us in a few minutes' time, I'll take her out for a walk in the garden."

"I think she'd like that," Ruth said gently. "Did I tell you? I've bumped my flight up a couple of days. I'll be in London sooner than we thought – Sydney has proven to be properly malleable and I've barely had to supervise the changeover."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Harry asked.

"I don't know, but either way, it means I'll be with you and Portia that much sooner," she murmured. "I miss you both very much. Portia because she's my little bit, and you because… well…"

Harry swallowed hard. "Oh, don't start anything you can't finish," he sighed. "Please."

She chuckled. "Well, we'll have a very happy reunion, won't we?"

"I rather think that you'll have a difficult time keeping me from pinning you to the wall and –" He glanced at the doorway and felt slightly uncomfortable that Alison had heard however much he'd heard. "Yes, Alison?" Harry sighed.

"His Lordship is ready to receive you and Miss Portia now, Sir Harry."

Harry sighed. "Of course, just when I'm on the phone with… yes, all right. We'll be right down." He frowned and muttered into the phone, "I'm sorry, my love – I need to go. I've been summoned."

"Mmm, all right," she breathed. "I should go back to sleep."

"I love you."

"I love you," she murmured. "Kiss her for me, please."

"Of course," Harry agreed readily. "Sleep well."

He terminated the call, then went to collect Portia from the Yellow Room, where she'd taken up residence in the enormous canopy bed with a book of fairy stories that had been her grandmother's. She looked up at him and smiled. "Can we go for a walk outside, dad?"

"Maybe later," Harry said. "It's time to go in and have tea with my father, love."

Portia sighed. "I don't like tea."

"I know, but there will be biscuits," he said, attempting to bribe her.

Portia closed the book and lugged it over to him. "Okay, but I'm taking my book," she said firmly.

He smiled and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "That's from your mum," Harry said. "She misses you very much."

Portia looked sad for a moment, then nodded. "But she'll be here soon?" she asked hopefully.

"Soon enough," Harry promised. He offered her his hand, which she took, and they made their way downstairs to the smoking room, where David took his tea in the early evening. Alison, of course, held the door for them. "Hello, father," Harry said.

"Oh, do shut up and come over here where I can see you, boy," David snapped gruffly. When Harry came closer, he glowered at him. "Bloody hell, you look like you've been chewed up and spat out. Well, come and get yourself comfortable at least. No point in everyone being miserable."

Portia took the gruff invitation to mean her, as well, and she scampered over and hopped up onto one of the antique chaise lounges with a smile. Harry just watched her with one eyebrow raised, until she lowered her feet off of the couch, suddenly looking rather guilty.

David squinted in her direction, then fumbled for his glasses. "You didn't tell me you were bringing some child with you," he muttered. "This is no place for children anymore, Henry."

Harry sighed. "Father, this is Portia. Portia, this is my father."

Portia smiled. "I'm glad to meet you, grandpa," she said eagerly. "I met my grandma the other day, and she's really nice –"

"Well, I'm not nice," David snapped. "Henry, how dare you just –"

"How dare I just what?" Harry inquired. "Not tell you that I'm in love with the most wonderful woman and we have a daughter together? Not tell you that I finally understand why you and mum were so happy together? What exactly am I meant to not dare to aspire to, father?"

David spluttered. "Don't speak to me that way, Henry –"

"I'm an adult," Harry said. "I can speak to you in any way I see fit, father."

Portia looked back and forth at them in alarm. "Please don't fight," she said, her eyes wide. "Please don't. You're supposed to love each other because you're dad and son – why are you fighting?"

Harry took a deep breath and went to sit next to his daughter on the chaise. He gently put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head. "I'm sorry, love, I didn't mean to upset you," he murmured.

"Where are your balls, Henry, that a slip of a girl can tell you what to do?" David challenged.

"Father, stop it," Harry snapped. "We're upsetting Portia and that's the last thing we need to do right now." He gave her another kiss and sighed. "What we're squabbling over like bloody toddlers is in the past; yes, I married Jane, yes, I cheated on Jane – and she cheated in return, yes, I was a horrible father to my children, and yes… the Service chewed me up and spat me out. But I'm not that man any longer, father. Nor do I want to be."

Portia said, "Who's Jane?"

"Jane is his wife," David muttered.

"Jane is Catherine's mother," Harry said with a sigh.

The door to the drawing room opened and a wizened old woman came in with a tray of biscuits, cake, and other delights. Portia's eyes lit up, and she squeaked a bit, smiling at the cook, who winked in return. "No one told me that Master Harry would be bringing a young lady with him, or this would have been in before the tea," Mrs. Whatley said.

Harry paused for a moment, thinking that he had never known Mrs. Whatley's first name. She'd been employed under his grandfather first, then his father… and god knew she'd probably outlive him! And yet, she was just Mrs. Whatley. "Thank you, Mrs. Whatley," he said gratefully.

"Dad, may I have a cookie, please?" Portia asked.

"I don't know why she keeps insisting on calling you 'dad'," David grunted.

"Because I am her father," Harry said in a stiff voice. "Mrs. Whatley, do you mind taking Portia to the kitchen and making her some hot chocolate? My father and I need to have a conversation that I'd prefer she not hear."

"Come on, lovey," Mrs. Whatley cooed to Portia. "We've got more biscuits and cake in the kitchen. And I'll make you a nice cuppa tea…"

"I don't like tea," Portia sighed.

"Oh, well… hot chocolate, then," Mrs. Whatley said. The two disappeared into the corridor, and Harry sat down, putting his head in his hands.

"I don't know why I ever thought I should bring her here," Harry said. "I thought maybe you'd gotten softer in your old age. Or maybe you wouldn't hate my daughter like you hate me."

David grunted. "Henry, since you and Jane got married, I've been waiting for you to bloody pull up your trousers and grow up," he spat. "Now you're sixty-four bloody years old and you've got a midlife crisis for me to deal with!"

Harry shook his head. "We'll be on the next train back to London," he promised. "First thing tomorrow – "

"No, you will explain to me exactly who that child is," David ordered. "And you will tell me the truth; none of that MI-5 flim-flam you can foist off on other people."

Harry frowned. "Have you spoken to Catherine or Graham recently?" he inquired.

"Oh yes, of course," David said. "They are good kids, all things considered."

"What have they told you?"

David made a dismissive noise. "About you? That you're trying not to be such a piece of work. That you adore your grandchildren. That you fell in love with someone who died and you've never been the same since. I'm not certain that any of those are good things. Tigers and stripes, m'boy."

Harry ran his hands through his thinning hair. "I cannot and will not apologize for cheating on Jane," he said quietly. "Least of all to you. You forced me to marry her; neither of us were happy. We gave you an heir and, yes, we were both carrying on romantic liaisons. What's done is done, father. I can't change what happened, and I know how disappointed you are that I chose the Service over my family." He exhaled and shook his head. "But I never would have met Ruth had I left the Service." He glanced over at his father. If he told the truth, the real truth, he would still be dirty and corrupt in his father's eyes. So why should he bother? "I'm not here for your approval," he said. "I'm here to show you that I'm not the man you condemned all those years ago."

David made an annoyed noise.

"I met Portia's mother at Five," Harry said. "We danced around one another, and finally managed to admit that there was something between us after a couple of years." He took a deep breath, then let it out. It was still painful to talk about Cotterdam and its fallout, even now. "There was an… incident… and she tried to take the blame. We faked her death and she left the country. I… I had no idea that she was pregnant, father. All I knew was how incredibly selfish I felt for loving her, still, knowing that I could never see her again." He drummed his fingertips idly on his thigh. "Well, I found her, and she had Portia – my daughter – and I've decided not to waste anymore time being unhappy for the sake of it. We've been married – with Her Majesty's permission, since I know you're worried about my almost-non-existent chance of taking the throne – and, like I said, I'm not here for your approval."

David was sat in his chair, frowning. "Does this woman go by Ruth anymore?"

Harry shook his head. "No," he said, "Ruth is no more. She can't be Ruth anymore, or there could be repercussions. She goes by Janet, now."

David hesitated, then nodded. "Janet Williams," he said. "The woman who got you nearly naked all over the front pages."

Harry groaned and covered his eyes. "Please don't mention that –"

"You should think twice about going out in a dressing gown – she's no good for you, Henry," David sighed.

"Yes," Harry said, "she is."

David scowled at him for a moment, then relented. "Yes, I suppose she is," he said. "Else you'd never bloody come round here till I was six feet under." He paused. "Henry… it's not that I don't care about you, it's just that you make it so bloody hard to love you. You're rather a dick."

Harry blinked. "What?"

David got up, struggling for a moment till he had his cane. "Come with me," he ordered gruffly. They went into the smoking room, which was the next room adjacent to the drawing room, and he flipped on the light. He went over to the coffee table, where a book was laid out.

Harry leaned over and looked at it, then turned the pages, his head not believing what his eyes were showing him. His father had a huge scrapbook filled with tidbits of Harry's life; articles, photographs, the whole lot.

Suddenly, all his father's days scouring the news made sense, and he felt sick to his stomach. He had written off his father's affections so long ago, and to see them made clear…

"You'll bring here here, won't you?" David asked. "So I can meet the woman you should have married instead of Jane?"

Harry hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, of course I will," he said quietly.

The photo of him and Ruth at the Emmys made him hesitate; she was so beautiful, all smile and gentle seduction, his arm around her waist, a hint of a smile on his lips. And that's how they were to the world; the vivacious younger woman and the paunchy old man.

But only he knew the secret smile she had just for him.

END PART FOURTEEN