Eighteen:
Beginning to See

Ruth was downstairs and in the dining room by six; Harry had still been upstairs, snoring, when she'd gotten dressed. Portia was still in bed, as well, so Ruth felt she might get a few minutes of peace and quiet with her tablet and the news. How wrong she was.

The Queen and Duke of Edinburgh were already up and enjoying breakfast under the watchful eye of Mrs. Whatley. Of course, they looked up the moment Ruth came into the room, and she blushed, then dipped a quick curtsey. "I'll go," she said quietly, pouring a cup of coffee.

"No, please stay," the Queen said. "We'll be putting you out in your own home."

Ruth added a splash of cream and a little sugar to her coffee. "It's not really my home," she said. "But I'll stay, if you'll allow me to make my apologies for my… less than stellar behavior last night."

The Queen smiled. "Already forgotten, my dear; you were tired and unwell."

"That's not an excuse for rudeness," Ruth murmured, sitting down at the table. "Harry didn't tell me about you being his godparents. He's… not very big on communication, to be quite frank."

The Duke coughed and said something softly to his wife, then excused himself from the room. Ruth found herself wondering what new offense she'd managed to inflict, and cursed inwardly. The Queen leaned closer and said, "Now that we're alone… as much as we can be, that is… you may ask me any questions your Henry might not answer."

Ruth paused, then frowned. "Well, I know you don't just agree to be someone's godmother."

The Queen smiled. "When one's distant cousin inquires gently, one tends to smile rather more graciously upon it," she said. "Fiona was related through my mother, and she was one of my confidantes until her death."

"Oh," Ruth said quietly. "Well, that's… not what I expected, to be honest."

"It wasn't?"

Ruth shook her head. "Harry isn't like other aristocrats I've met," she said softly. "He never cared about pulling rank or… or abusing his position to make others look poorly."

The Queen nodded. "That would be Fiona's influence," she said. "She wanted her sons to be strong and care about the world around them. She was a good woman, Janet, and she would have loved you."

Ruth took a sip of her coffee and let it cool on her tongue before she swallowed. "I wish I could have met her," she murmured.

"How did you meet Henry?" the Queen inquired, finishing her fruit and laying into a cup of tea.

"Work," Ruth replied automatically. "I used to work at GCHQ. Harry and I… liaised. Rather a lot. And, um, not always to do with work." She looked down into her mug and sighed. "There was an incident and it was thought that I should leave the country for a time. So I did. I just… carried a rather important package with me."

"Portia," the Queen said.

Ruth nodded. "Things happened and I never made it back to Britain," she said with a sigh. "But Harry found me and convinced me that the world wouldn't end if we chased our own happiness for once. And here we are."

"Are you happy?"

"I love Harry very much," she replied. "And it does Portia good to have him in her life."

"That wasn't the question."

"I don't know how to answer the question," Ruth admitted quietly. "Sometimes yes, sometimes no; I don't think anyone is ever blissfully happy all of the time."

"No, I suppose not," the Queen agreed. She finished her tea and rose to her feet. Ruth scrambled to do the same, and the Queen said, "Don't trouble yourself, dear. I've got to read the usual diplomatic rubbish and make a quick telephone call to Number 10. You carry on."

Ruth was left alone in the room with Mrs. Whatley, wondering if she'd imagined the whole thing.

"I'm sorry, Alison, for taking you away from your tasks," Harry said, "but have you seen my wife?" He'd looked through the likely places, and he would be unsurprised if she'd appropriated the Lexus and made a getaway to the station. She was like a skittish filly, still, in a lot of ways.

"She's been out walking in the garden for ages," the butler replied as he continued counting the silver cutlery for the evening's banquet. "She came down for breakfast at quarter past six, and went out about seven-thirty."

Harry glanced at his watch. "That's a long while to be out wandering in this kind of weather," he said reprovingly.

"I provided her with a jacket, brolly, and galoshes, Sir Harry," Alison said. After a pause, he added, "Don't give me that look. The implication of your wife being underequipped to handle the weather is my job on the block. I'm not stupid, mind."

"She tends to do what she wants," Harry said cautiously. "Do you have an extra pair of galoshes?"

"Of course, sir. Am I to take it that this means you are going out to collect your lady?"

"No, it means I'm going to go muck the stables – of course I'm bloody going out," Harry grumbled. "She'll catch her death if she stays out much longer, and we do have guests arriving in short order."

Alison coughed delicately. "Lady Janet is, from what I've witnessed, a very different kind of woman from Lady Jane. You would do well to keep the good one."

"Why do you think I bloody married her?" Harry grunted. "Of course, since then, we've barely seen one another. Galoshes, Alison – just point me in the proper direction."

"Mud room, just off the kitchen. There are about eight pairs in various sizes."

Harry nodded and headed off to the mudroom. He found a pair of galoshes and a jacket that would suffice to keep him dry, and set off in search of Ruth. He found her in his mother's rose garden, sitting quietly on the marble bench, lost in thought as she stared out over the sea of flowers.

"Good morning," he said quietly, and she looked up at him. "Is this seat taken?"

She smiled a little and patted the bench beside her. He sat down, flinching as the cool water seeped into his trousers and hit his skin. "Hi," she said softly. "Your father's gardens are lovely."

"This was my mum's," Harry said. "The roses, I mean. She was particularly fond of them; even created a few new varieties in her day." He frowned. "Have you been out here all morning?"

"Maybe," she murmured. "I had breakfast with your godparents, then got a bit of work done, and then I thought it might be nice to take a walk. Alison got me outfitted and I've been out here ever since."

"It's rather bad weather to be out wandering," he said.

"I know, but I wanted to see the gardens," she replied. "And I just kind of… sat down." She turned her head to look at him and smiled. "I do like it here," Ruth said. "A lot more than I thought I would. And your father's book collection is astounding."

Harry nodded. "I'm sure when we combine your collection with the family collection, we'll have to shore up the house's foundations, lest it crumble and sag beneath the library," he teased gently.

"What?"

"I still have your books in storage," he said softly. It had been his concession to the crushing knowledge that she might never come home again: after a few months, he had put her things away in storage. But he had kept them, praying to a god he no longer believed in that she would come home to him again. "I'll get some shelves and put them in our room at the townhouse before Portia and I go back to Los Angeles."

"You kept my things?"

"Your mother," he replied very quietly, "has been keeping them at hers."

"I… I need to see her."

"She'll be arriving on the ten o'clock train," Harry said. "As will many of our guests that will be staying overnight. Alison and I will be going to collect them at the station." He paused. "I'd ask if you wanted to come, but you might be forced to drive the third car instead of the gardener."

"I want to," Ruth said quickly. "Are we safe to leave Portia behind?"

Harry chuckled. "She's holed up in my father's sanctuary, watching telly with him," he said. "I think she'll be more than all right."

"You think?" she questioned.

He gave her a sternly dour look. "Our daughter is intelligent enough not to get into too much trouble," he said. "Not to mention, the Royal Protection Detail basically have the house on lockdown. If there's so much as a hint of trouble, it won't be from her."

"That's… not exactly what I meant," Ruth said with a sigh. "You're not a mum. You don't understand."

"No, I'm not," he agreed, "but I have been caring for her for some time on my own, and for that, I should be commended, not condemned." He reached over and held her hand, their fingers curving together into an unshakable image of their bond. "Do you want to come to the station with me? If so, we need to go inside and change clothes, as my pants are now utterly soaked through."

She tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle a laugh. "Oh, Harry…"

He got up and gently pulled her with him, her umbrella covering them still. "Are you nervous about seeing your mother again?" he asked gently.

"No," Ruth murmured. "I'm not. Because she knows what you told her… despite the OSA. And she knows I would never have gone without good reason."

He put his arm around her waist and together, they walked back to the house.

"The weather really is dreadful," Harry muttered as they pulled into the car park. "Trust my father to pick the worst possible Saturday in August to host a party."

Ruth chuckled a little and said, "It's not so bad, even if no one will go outside and see the lovely fairy lights that your gamekeepers put up."

Harry paused and took a deep breath. That never boded well; Ruth knew that usually that meant he was conflicted and something dreadful was about to pour out of his mouth. "I want to apologize if I offended you last night," he said quietly.

That took her aback. "Offended me? What could you possibly have said that would offend me?" she asked.

"When I said I hired you because I wanted to shag you," he reminded her. "I'm properly ashamed of that, you have to understand, but –"

"Harry," she said gently, "you were being candid and telling me the truth. I'm not offended. We spent eleven years apart; our shared past is more important to me, despite motivations, than the energy it takes to be offended because you were thinking with your prick at the time." She smiled over at him and took his hand in hers for a moment. "Besides, your reasoning served us both well in the end."

"Am I meant to take that as a compliment of my –"

"I wouldn't go that far," she teased gently. "But we do have Portia and now each other. So maybe your dick had a better long-term strategy than you knew."

He sighed, though. "But eleven years… and Iain Lewis later…"

"I never stopped loving you. I just gave up on seeing you ever again so I could tell you I was wrong." She let that sink in for a moment, then opened the car door. "By the way, since the feeling was mutual, I'm even less offended. Because I can't really hold you to task for wanting in my knickers when I wanted in your pants just as much."

He groaned and got out of the car, too. "Of course, you would say something like that as we're going to meet your mother and Malcolm," he whined.

She paused, blushing a bit. "Yes, well…"

He offered her his arm after he hit the alarm button on the key fob. "Onward," Harry said simply but firmly. "There will be plenty of time for dissecting our former lack of relationship later."

"There's always time for that," she replied softly, taking his proffered arm and leaning into him. "After all, that was our relationship until a few weeks ago." She was keenly aware that throwing herself off a cliff and into his waiting arms was the maddest, daftest thing that she'd ever done in her life; but it had been every bit as important as them admitting all that time before that they actually cared about one another. Jumping into marriage head first was merely an extension of that, and it was the only thing she'd done in recent years that made any kind of sense at all. It wasn't mad or sudden: it was a slow burn that had become nothing short of a conflagration. And at the heart of everything, there they stood, trying to make a life for themselves in the face of disapproval and confusion and outright questioning of their choices.

When they got inside, slightly dampened by the weather, there were a few familiar faces waiting to greet them. "Mum!" Ruth cried, abandoning Harry in favor of a crushing embrace with her mother. "Oh, my god, I'm so happy to see you," Ruth whispered, holding on for dear life.

"Not a phone call, not a moment spared when you could think of my feelings," Elizabeth teased very quietly and gently. "Harry had to tell me that I had a granddaughter, and I didn't believe him at first because she looks nothing like you."

Ruth swallowed hard and whispered, "I couldn't. It wasn't safe."

"From what I hear, you overuse and abuse that word," Elizabeth countered. "But that's neither here nor there – where is Portia?"

"Back at the house with her grandfather," Ruth said. "It seemed a waste to break them apart when we needed space in the cars for everyone and luggage, besides."

"Good thinking," Elizabeth said. "Look at you – what have you done to your hair?"

Ruth reached up and self-consciously touched her hair. It was much softer, baby-fine, and ever so much lighter than it used to have been. "Oh," she said very quietly. "It grew back like this. I haven't touched it, and it's not really gone grey yet, either."

"Grew back?" Elizabeth questioned.

"I'll tell you about it later," Ruth promised. "Just not right now."

Her mother huffed. "Oh, fine – but if you tell me something like you shaved your head on purpose, I might have to put you over my knee."

Ruth smiled a little, still feeling a bit like her mother might overreact just ever so slightly when she mentioned in a rather off-handed manner that she'd had cancer but was now in remission. "I'll be right back – Harry needs me," she said, giving Elizabeth a final gentle squeeze before she retreated. Harry was talking to Malcolm and – "Graham, Sarah, I thought you weren't coming," Ruth said as she came up beside them.

"Yeah, well, when Grandfather calls and tells you to be at the platform at a certain time, you do it," Graham said with a lop-sided grin. "How do you feel about the monstrosity?" he asked.

"Oh, he's not that bad," Ruth teased, gently nudging Harry, who glared at her.

"I meant Kindwell," Graham said. "We all know my father is monstrous."

"Couldn't agree with you more, chap," said William Towers, clapping Graham on the shoulder. "You and I – let's chat later. You can arm me with tales of your father's misdeeds and I can ply you with wine."

"I don't think that would be appropriate," Ruth said. "It hardly seems fitting to get blackmail fodder on someone who is no longer employed beneath you, Home Secretary."

Towers gave her a dirty look, then his features softened. "And this will be the lovely Janet, then? A fitting reason to retire, Harry, I must say –"

"Yes, she is," Harry replied, giving her a look that meant 'say nothing'. "Does everyone have their bags, then? We can head to the cars."

Harry immediately put Elizabeth, Graham, and Sarah's bags into the Lexus. He clearly felt badly about exiling Malcolm to the cars with the politicians, but the rule of keeping your family close and your enemies closer clearly applied. "Everybody in," he said.

Sarah was still looking a bit green around the gills, so Ruth decided to sit in the back with her and Elizabeth. "Is your morning sickness still bothering you?" Ruth asked unnecessarily.

Sarah groaned softly and said, "I've been sick all bloody day, Jan. It's awful."

Ruth smiled a little. "I remember when I was pregnant with Portia, the weirdest scents would set me off. One of them was tea, oddly. I was bloody miserable. But it does get better after a period of time, I promise. And then you'll have a beautiful baby to love."

"Meanwhile, I'm bloody miserable," Sarah pointed out with a pout that was worthy of any of the Pearces.

Elizabeth smiled a little and said, "When I was pregnant with you, the very smell of eggs made me projectile vomit. Of course, your father was a sadist and made eggs every morning."

Ruth laughed. "Yeah, dad was very fond of his eggs, wasn't he?"

Sarah curled up her lip and whimpered a bit. "Please don't talk about food."

"I'll see to it that Mrs. Whatley gives you some ginger tea when we get to the house," Harry said firmly from the driver's seat as they bumped and jostled. Ruth was rather afraid that they wouldn't make it that far before the interior of the car was painted with Sarah's stomach upset. "Elizabeth, I've been rather rude – this is my son, Graham, and his fiancée, Sarah. You lot, this is Janet's mum."

"Nice to meet you," Sarah mumbled. "Harry, can you pull over?"

It didn't surprise Ruth at all that Graham was out of the car almost as fast as Sarah was when they stopped on the side of the road. The other two cars continued on past them, and a few minutes passed before they were on their way again. Sarah was much less green at that point and rather more pale, but she looked better.

"I'm sorry," she said in apology.

"No, it's all right," Ruth assured her. "And anyone who tells you it isn't is going to get a bollocking from me."

"She can protect you from mum tonight," Graham pointed out. "God knows I'm going to get run rough-shod over because Cate and the girls aren't there to distract her. Getting into a bloody car wreck on the way to the airport is not on form."

"Have a care," Harry snapped. "Gracie broke her arm, Graham, and your sister has deep cuts across her body from the bloody seat belt. It's nothing to make light of."

"Dad, I wasn't – do you always have to bluster about and be in charge of every bloody thing?" Graham snapped back. "No wonder mum divorced you."

Harry snorted. "I divorced her," he countered. "And now isn't the time to do this. If we want to have this discussion, it will be later, after the guests have gone."

Sarah glanced out the window and gasped. "Oh, what a lovely house!"

Elizabeth leaned over Ruth to get a better view out the window. "Oh my goodness, why did no one tell me?" she gasped.

"Oh, if you think the house is impressive, just wait till you meet Harry's godparents," Ruth said wryly, catching his glare in the rearview mirror.

This was shaping up to be a lot of fun.

If by fun, one meant endless hours of torture.

END PART EIGHTEEN