CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-ELEVEN
The bell rang over the door, and for a split-second, both women stood and remembered. Nearly two years ago, Ruth and Isabelle had stood just this way, as strangers. Now, as they smiled in recognition, they were as dear to each other as they could be, and the time apart had done nothing to lessen their care for each other.
In place of the restraint that had characterised their first meeting, this was a reunion of abandon. Isabelle moved quickly from around the counter and they flew into each other's arms, laughing, both speaking at once. And it wasn't only Ruth who had tears in her eyes.
Isabelle held Ruth at arm's length. "Let me look at you! Brown as a berry!" Isabelle ran her thumb gently across Ruth's cheek, but was dismayed as she saw Ruth's eyes cloud. Isabelle tilted her head and frowned good-naturedly. "Oh, and so quickly I've said the wrong thing! I need to hear your story, my dear, so I'll know what to say and what to keep to myself."
Ruth smiled sadly and shook her head, "No, no, please don't worry. It's just that ... so much has happened since I last saw you..."
Turning the sign in the window and then locking the door, Isabelle took Ruth's arm in hers and led her to the back of the store. "Come with me, dear Ruth." She turned and smiled at the newness of the name. "Ruth," she said again, as if she were trying on a new piece of clothing. "Lovely. But I will miss saying 'Sophie,' as I became very fond of her."
Ruth hugged her arm. "She's still here. I think a part of me will always be Sophie with you."
Before she knew it, Ruth was back in the damask chair. Whilst Isabelle readied the tea, she looked around her. Smiling, she saw that the stacks of books had begun again, but that the computer desk was still neat and tidy. Isabelle saw Ruth's look, and shook her head, laughing softly. "Oh, I know. Is it very bad? I can never tell."
"No," Ruth said, smiling, "Not very bad. Just a bit of organising is all it would take." It was second nature to her, and Ruth thought of getting up to see what was in the short stacks of books, and if she could quickly find places for them, but she resisted. She knew that would be an avoidance technique, another way to keep herself from facing what she had come here to do.
Ruth had spent the two hours on the Eurostar thinking, and trying to do it clearly. She hadn't intended to kiss Harry, but her love for him in that moment had simply made it impossible for her to resist. And it had felt so good, so right, to be back in his arms. The passion was still there, all of it, and although she'd worked for a year at not comparing Harry and George, she no longer had the strength to fight it. Her feelings for George had never come close to what she felt for Harry, and that acknowledgement brought on the guilt afresh. Not only had she led George to his death – she'd done it without even offering him the consolation of her heart.
Tracing her finger on the window of the train, Ruth had forced herself back to the issue at hand. She knew she either needed to put things right with Harry and go back to work on the Grid, or she needed to find another job. It was as simple as that. The fact that she loved both Harry and the job should have made it easier, but, in fact, it seemed to muddy the water. Ruth didn't think of Isabelle as a miracle worker, but she knew that when she'd talked to her in the past, her life had seemed somehow clearer.
So Ruth watched Isabelle prepare the tea and she waited. Isabelle was chattering all the while about how hard it had been to find someone with Ruth's ability to sort through the mess, and how accomplished she was feeling on "that machine." She told Ruth what a help the income from the website had been, and how grateful she was. As she fell into the familiar routine, Ruth found herself breathing easier.
And then she had a china cup in her hands. She watched the steam rise from the rich tea, and traced the light pink of the painted roses with her fingers. It was as if she'd never left. But I did leave, Ruth thought. And yes, so much has happened. She looked up as Isabelle offered her a plate of galettes, just as she had the first time she'd sat in this chair. Ruth smiled and took one as Isabelle sat across from her.
Ruth sighed. "It's so strange," she said softly. "When I first came here, I was missing England so terribly, and was nostalgic for my life there." She raised her eyebrows slightly. "Now, I find I'm glad to be back in this room, in this chair, with you across from me. I've missed it very much. It's so lovely, and wonderfully familiar." She put her hand out and took Isabelle's hand. "And very precious to me."
"As you are to me, my dear," Isabelle replied. "I've been very worried for you, and I very much appreciated your little notes," she inclined her head toward the computer. "And of course, it meant the world that James came to tell me you were safe."
An involuntary smile started at the corners of Ruth's mouth, and there was a sudden lightness that came into her eyes. Isabelle saw it immediately, and gave a soft laugh in anticipation. "Oh, you're going to tell me, aren't you?" Isabelle's eyes danced. "Your name is Ruth, and James is the 'H' on your beautiful ring..." Isabelle looked at Ruth's hand, and frowned slightly, "...Which you no longer wear."
Ruth didn't speak for a moment. Isabelle looked up and said mischievously, "You'll still make me guess?" She began counting on her fingers, "Harvey? ... Howard? ... erm... Homer?" Ruth laughed and shook her head vigorously. "Henry...?" At Ruth's broad smile, Isabelle laughed, and said, "Henry?"
"Close." Ruth's eyes softened, and she said, tenderly, "Harry."
Isabelle saw Ruth's look and nodded, as she squeezed her hand gently. "Oh, my dear, and you do still love him very much. I'm glad. But you must start from the beginning, and tell me what you can. I'll piece together the rest."
Ruth's smile disappeared as she looked down at her tea, and said softly, "I need help, Isabelle. I can't seem to make sense of it." She looked up. "Yes, I love him very much." The tears sprang to her eyes so quickly, she hardly knew they were there, until she saw Isabelle's face blur in front of her. But through the tears, Ruth laughed, and shook her head, "God, this chair! I can't seem to sit here without falling to pieces!" She wiped her eyes on the napkin Isabelle had given her, and took a deep breath. "I'm fine, really. I'm only having trouble getting my bearings..."
Isabelle said softly, "Well, let's sort it out then, my dear. What can you tell me about where you have been? The Indian man who came here said he thought you were in Greece?" She sat back in her chair, as naturally as if Ruth were going to tell her about a new sewing pattern, or a book she was reading. "That man, he was a very bad man, wasn't he?"
Ruth felt it all come back to her again. Mani. The laptop. Harry's eyes. Nico. George. She wondered how she could even begin to relate the story of what had happened in that horrible room, and how she felt about it. Ruth realised that she was bound by the rules of MI5, even more so now than she'd been when she'd first come to Paris in exile. Then, Ruth Evershed hadn't existed. Now, she was a true member of the Grid again.
But she'd come here for a reason, and she needed Isabelle's help. Ruth chose her words carefully. "Not Greece. Cyprus." She took a sip of her tea and set the cup on the table next to her. "I lived there for a year, and returned to England only a few weeks ago. And yes, the man who came here looking for me was an extremely bad man." Isabelle sat silently, and Ruth could see that she wasn't going to comment until she felt Ruth was asking for her thoughts. And suddenly, a question that Ruth hadn't even realised she was going to ask came into her head.
Ruth started tentatively, not certain how to phrase it. "Isabelle, you said that when you and Pierre were separated for a year, that you never wanted another person." Ruth paused, and again felt the guilt wash over her. Not only the guilt she knew she felt about deceiving George, but another layer of regret that had always been there, under the surface. "I was so lonely, and I had no word from Harry for so long. He told me to move on ..."
Ruth's eyes were so stricken that Isabelle had to lean forward now. "Ah, yes, the loneliness. I know it, my dear. And I shouldn't have been so...what is your word... arrogant?" Ruth nodded. "A year is a very long time, and you say he told you to move on? I never had that with Pierre. He told me instead to stay true, to be faithful. It was very different, Ruth."
"But shouldn't I have known?" Ruth brushed the tears from her cheeks absent-mindedly as she spoke. "If it's the kind of love I thought it was, why would I ever consent to live with another man, to think of marrying him...and now, he's dead, because of me..." Ruth had already gone further than she thought she should, but the words were tumbling out. If she didn't use names, if she stayed general, she wouldn't be breaking any rules. And Ruth needed so much to talk about this. Not with a therapist at Tring, but with her dear friend Isabelle, who had experienced something similar, and who loved her.
"Ah..." Isabelle said softly, raising her eyebrows in comprehension. "Oh, I'm so sorry...this dangerous work..." A bare hint of anger entered her voice, and then it was gone. "And did you love this man?"
There it was. The same question Harry had asked her in the warehouse. Do you love him? And her answer, I feel very ... guilty. This time, she answered the question as she should have then. "No." Ruth looked down at her hands in her lap, and said, her voice choking, "I used him." Ruth realised how blunt that sounded, and she looked up at Isabelle and took a deep breath. "I don't know how else to say it."
And now the tears came in earnest, in sobs. Isabelle leant forward completely and took Ruth's head on her shoulder. With her arms full around her, Isabelle felt the shuddering of Ruth's guilt, and the warmth of the tears as they fell and spread on her blouse at her neck.
"I...k-killed him...he was a good man...h-he loved me...he had a s-son...who now has n-no father..." Ruth spoke between sobs, and Isabelle let her. With her hand rubbing Ruth's back, she rocked gently, and murmured softly, as she remembered doing with Guillaume when he was a small child.
Finally, Ruth's erratic breathing calmed, and she spoke, in a flat, resigned voice. "I called Harry a heartless bastard. I thought Harry could save him, but really, that poor man ... a good man ... died the moment I drew him into my life." Ruth pulled away and looked at Isabelle, her face a mask of sadness. "I thought I could leave it all behind, that life. Perhaps I could have, but ... but Harry was still there." Ruth looked down in despair, "I can't seem to leave Harry behind, Isabelle."
"Oh, and why would you want to, my dear girl?" Isabelle held Ruth's face, and tipped her chin up, gazing gently into her eyes. "We mustn't ever turn our back on love. And most particularly not on a love like the one I have seen between you and your Harry."
Ruth's voice sounded tiny to her. "Why is it so hard, then?"
Isabelle laughed softly. "And where did you ever get the idea it would be easy?" Wiping Ruth's tears from her cheeks with her thumb, Isabelle said, "Ah, how I loved Pierre. It took hold of me, and never let me go, through all those years. And if he were as near to me as London right now, my dear, there is nothing that would stop me from going to him."
Ruth looked up again, and into Isabelle's eyes. Shaking her head, she said, "I need time. To think."
Smiling, Isabelle said, "Yes, of course. But first, we eat. I have a lovely Salade Nicoise and a cold bottle of wine waiting at home. You will come with me?"
Nodding, Ruth said, "Yes. I'd like that."
Isabelle stood, and took Ruth's hand, leading her out of the damask chair. She unplugged the kettle and quickly gathered up the tea things before turning out the light and walking with Ruth to the front of the store.
As Isabelle closed the register for the day, Ruth ran her fingers across the books on the tables she passed. "I did love it here, Isabelle." Ruth looked back at the older woman. "At the time, I thought I wanted to be somewhere else, but Paris was lovely, really ..." Ruth stopped and leant against the table. "Why do we do that to ourselves, do you think? Want to be where we're not?"
Isabelle came from around the counter and took Ruth's arm, smiling. "It's a part of being human, I'm afraid. We often don't see things for what they are when they stand all around us. We need distance." She turned and looked affectionately at Ruth. "It's why you are here now, yes? To get some distance so that you can see your Harry?"
Her face was so open and kind, that Ruth felt herself release still more of the pain she'd been holding for so long. Looking at Isabelle, she said, softly, "You're a great gift to me, and a dear friend. Thank you."
Isabelle laughed. "Ah, my sweet girl. We are gifts to each other." She turned out the light and opened the door, causing the bell to let out a tiny peal. "Come, let's eat, and drink, and find out what you'll decide to do, shall we?"
With that, Ruth and Isabelle walked out into the cool Paris evening.
Harry wandered through the house with Fidget and Phoebe close at his heels. Bloody psychics, just like Ruth, he thought. They always knew when he was troubled, and refused him the solitary peace of his own surly company. Scarlet, on the other hand, had become accustomed to his midnight wanderings, and was snoring softly on the couch.
It was getting colder, and Harry wore his slippers as he moved from table to chair, picking up the few items that were out of place. He was putting off the scotch for as long as possible, hoping that tonight he could find sleep in his bed, instead of his chair. As he passed the CD player, he put on the music that gave him the most comfort these days, Mahler's Symphony of a Thousand. Somehow, the doubled chorus made him feel smaller, less responsible for the world's woes. As he listened to the strings begin, he finally gave in and poured his first drink of the night.
Harry fell heavily onto the couch and leant his head back, listening. Now the sopranos had started, and he let himself be drawn into their voices. But still the only voice he really wanted to hear was Ruth's.
He'd heard nothing from her. Two days in Paris with Isabelle, and for all he knew, she'd decided to leave him and this life behind. It might already be a fact, one of which he was simply not yet aware. The competing desires of wanting to know, and the bliss of ignorance, were present in everything he did. And of course, the Grid had fallen strangely silent again, just when he needed a good diversion.
Ros was still on leave, and Lucas was handling things well. Everyone missed Jo terribly, but in the way they'd all gotten used to, things were plodding along with an awareness that she had quietly joined the others they'd lost. Harry was remembering what Ruth had said on the bench just two days ago: They're all standing around me, demanding that I face them. Harry saw them all as well, like a Greek chorus off in the shadows of the Grid. He saw them every day, but he had to keep telling himself that there would be more of them if he simply gave up.
He couldn't stop thinking about the bench. As he'd stood across from Greenwich looking at Ruth sitting there, he'd wondered what memories it would leave him with, and now he knew. A kiss, and Ruth's gentle voice saying I love you. She'd said it, and he'd felt it. But the irony of that memory was that really, it might make no difference to what Ruth would finally decide.
Harry knew now that the love had always been there, from the very beginning. The question was not whether they loved each other. The question was, as always, could they be together in their love? The fact that it was a decision he had no say in, again with a body of water between them, made Harry's skin feel as if he had electricity running through it. He was being patient, but how bloody patient was he expected to be?
Harry sighed and took a small sip of his drink, wanting to make it last so that another wouldn't be necessary. During these long nights, he couldn't seem to go for five minutes without thinking of Ruth. And then he smiled wryly, thinking, Just who am I kidding? Five minutes would be a miracle.
But he was getting tired. Last night he reckoned he'd gotten two hours of sleep, and it was already after one in the morning. As Phoebe slipped into the space between him and the arm of the couch, Harry downed the glass and set it beside him on the table.
He closed his eyes, and the music took him, finally, gratefully, into oblivion.
Harry woke, not to a sound, but to the feel of Scarlet on his chest. She was trembling, and her paws were clenched in painful little balls there – and in his half-awake state, Harry had a moment of remembering a night very much like this. So long ago, when Ruth had come to his door. In fact, frowning, Harry had to rub the sleep from his face before he could take in that this wasn't, in fact, that night, but another one. The innocence of the Ruth who had shown up on his doorstep two years ago had been shattered, perhaps beyond repair, since that night.
Looking at the clock, Harry sighed. 2:38. Well, thank God, he thought, it isn't 2:23, and he had to laugh, sardonically. "Bloody idiot," he said, under his breath. He looked at Scarlet and said softly, "What, girl?" Scarlet was focussed on the front door, quivering. Harry shook his head and stood. "Alright, I'll look. But there'll be no one there." He walked to the front door, and opened it.
"See?" he said to Scarlet, as they both surveyed the empty front stoop, "Nothing." He stood for a moment, remembering, and said absently, "No one here." Then he looked down to Scarlet, and said softly, sadly, shaking his head, "She's not here, girl."
He stood a bit longer, feeling the cool breeze on his face. He marvelled at the quiet the dead of night lent to the street in front of his house, which was usually a place of some minor activity. But Harry had trouble closing the door, because he wanted Ruth here, on his doorstep. He could almost imagine her again, in her slippers, pyjamas, and coat, her hair dishevelled, her face open and flushed with the chill. But finally, even Scarlet gave up - satisfied that the house was secure, she walked back to the couch and jumped up, curling into a ball.
Harry closed the door, turned, and leant back against it, closing his eyes. In his exhaustion, he felt emotion welling up, and a part of him wanted it to spill over. He wanted to feel something that connected to his feelings for Ruth, to the helplessness of the last two days, to his memory of her kiss and how much he wanted her, to his wondering if there was any future for them. Each hour had gone by, and he'd thought she would call. I'm coming home, she would say. To our home.
But she hadn't called, and with each hour, Harry had felt hope diminish and resignation increase. How long does it take to leave a life behind? He didn't know, but he was afraid he was finding out.
And then, a knock. Vibrating through his head, leant against the door. Harry opened his eyes, and after a deep breath, allowed himself to hope. He turned, pulled at the handle of the door, and there she was.
And again, as he had on that night so long ago, Harry doubted his own sight, and thought he'd created her from his own need, his own desperate imagination.
But she was quickly in his arms, and the doubt disappeared. It was his own Ruth, the other part of him, and as he held her, he breathed again.
~~~~~
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-TWELVE
"Harry."
Her voice was in his ear, whispered, soft. He was speaking too, although he didn't know precisely what he was saying. And then, there was nothing more he could say, because her lips were on his. But this time, they weren't in a public place, they were in Harry's front hall. And it wasn't a tentative kiss, it was a kiss that told Harry that Ruth had not only made up her mind, but that she knew precisely what she wanted.
Harry reached his slippered foot around and kicked the door closed. It slammed far too loudly for the hour, but neither of them heard it. They were lost in each other and in their memories - two people who had spent too many nights deprived of the other's touch. Ruth's hands reached into his dressing robe and found the warm, smooth skin of his back. As they kissed, Harry touched Ruth's neck, her face, her hair. Somehow, he managed to pull himself away, and although he was afraid of the answer, he asked, "Are you home?" His hands framed her beautiful flushed cheeks, and a tear slid past, as Ruth smiled and said, on a choked breath, "Yes. I'm home."
"Oh, thank God," Harry whispered, taking her again in his arms. He held her tightly to his shoulder, cradling the back of her head with his hand. His chest rose and fell in the release of all the worry he'd been holding for two days, and he and Ruth stood, nearly motionless, savouring the feel of each other.
But there were others in the room that needed to be heard, and Ruth glanced down at the frantic figure eights being executed around their feet by Phoebe and Fidget. She and Harry could also feel Scarlet's sharp paws resting firmly, one on Harry's leg, and one on Ruth's. In fact, Scarlet decided that a yelp was necessary to gain the required attention, so she began with one, and then more.
Despite what seemed to be the solemnity of the occasion, Ruth began to giggle, and she felt a laugh rise up in Harry as well, as he muttered wryly, "Christ. Who says we don't have children?" That set Ruth off further, and before they knew it, they were laughing, and bending down in the furry midst of three girls who would not be denied the joy of the homecoming.
After a moment, Ruth looked at Harry, who was smiling and talking softly to Scarlet. This man is so dear to me, she thought, How could I ever have imagined I could stay away?Ruth reached her hand out to Harry's face, and he bent his mouth to the palm of her hand and kissed it. Still with his eyes on hers, he said, "I love you."
Ruth took Harry's hand and stood, pulling him up with her, and she went silently to the front door and locked it. Her carry-all, the carry-all, that had finally found its way home again after two years, was still in the hallway where she had just dropped it. She picked it up and handed it to him. Still saying nothing, she walked through the lounge, turning out the lights, one by one. Then, Ruth led Harry up the stairs and down the hall to his bedroom.
It was just approaching three in the morning, and the moon had travelled far enough across the sky to send its brightness through the tall windows and across the floor of Harry's bedroom. As their eyes adjusted, everything in the room began to take on a blue glow.
Ruth stood in the middle of the room for a time, remembering. The last time she'd been here was just before she'd left Harry in Dover, and she'd thought then that she would be back soon. It had felt like it was only the start of an easier time for them, when the constraints that had kept them apart would begin to relax. When she'd last stood in this room, George Constantinou was unknown to her, and a life in the mountain house on Cyprus would have been unthinkable unless it was to be spent with Harry.
Ruth looked up at the painted ceiling of Harry's dressing room, just faintly visible in the half-light, and she recalled knotting his tie, and the moment he'd pressed his house key into her hand. So much had happened since that morning that she never could have imagined, and, as she had so many times in the last two days, Ruth thought of how utterly futile it was to worry about the future.
Harry stood silently and let her encounter the space again, and once more, he was grateful that he'd brought no other woman here. It belonged to her as completely as it did to him. It was his most personal space, where he allowed his defences to fall each night, and where for so long, he'd given in to the pain and loneliness of Ruth's absence. Harry watched her now as she turned, surveying the dressing room, and the window seat, and then, finally, the bed.
Ruth's head tilted slightly as she looked at the table on what she and Harry had considered "her" side of the bed, ever since she'd slept there for the first time. A shaft of moonlight from the window fell on a small, wooden, heart-shaped box that she'd never seen before. She looked at Harry with a question in her eyes, and he nodded. He smiled, and said, softly, "Open it."
With his hand still in hers, Ruth walked to the bed and they both sat down. She reached over and pulled the short cord for the light on the table, which flooded the room instantly with soft, muted light. Ruth picked up the wooden box and held it gently, knowing what must be inside. For a moment, she found herself feeling nervous, almost shy about opening it, but Harry put his arm around her and gently kissed her temple, whispering again, "Open it, Ruth."
She removed the top, and an involuntary sigh escaped her. She looked at Harry with her eyes now filled with tears, and handed him the box. He took the necklace out, and placed it around her neck, and as he clasped it, he bent and kissed the tiny silver H and R charms. His lips travelled gently up her neck, to her ear, and across her cheek , and then he allowed his lips to brush tenderly over hers.
Ruth's eyes were closed, and her head leant back. She whispered against his cheek, "I didn't think I'd ever see this again." Her hand was at her neck, and her fingers ran lightly over the charms as she used to do in Paris whilst she wrote her letters to him.
Harry pulled back and watched her until her eyes opened. When they did, he said, "And this?" He held out his hand and opened it to show her the ring resting on his palm. Ruth smiled and picked it up, then held the ring between her two fingers, watching as the light played softly on the tiny charms hidden there.
"Nor this," she said, with an almost bewildered tone. "So many things I thought were lost," she looked at Harry and stroked his face gently. "Now found again." Harry took the ring from her, and then took Ruth's left hand. He placed the circle of silver gently on her third finger and kissed it.
He couldn't speak, although he had so much he wanted to say. Harry thought it might be true that, after all that had happened, he didn't deserve the happiness he was feeling. But this was the moment he'd created in his mind over hundreds of lonely nights in his bed, and now he didn't care whether he deserved it or not. He kissed Ruth again, to be sure she was real, and she responded, warm and soft in his arms. He could feel her blood pounding and rushing just as his was, her breath coming quickly now in anticipation of what they both knew was about to happen.
Since the last time he'd been with Ruth, Harry had slept alone, night after night. He'd had to make do with memories of the feel of Ruth's skin, the taste of her, and the scent of lavender that clung faintly to her neck and shoulders. Now it all came flooding back to him, and he couldn't seem to take it all in – it overwhelmed him, and made him slightly dizzy. Harry closed his eyes and laid back as Ruth pulled herself next to him on her pillow. They found themselves lying together naturally, just as they'd been in his bed so long ago, before the world had turned upside down.
Ruth wanted Harry so much, but there was something she had to say. They both knew that Ruth hadn't held herself separate as Harry had, and that she'd given herself to George. That fact hung between them now, and had to be acknowledged. She buried her head in his shoulder and said softly, "I'm so sorry, Harry." And then Ruth finally answered the question Harry had asked her in the warehouse. "I never loved him. It was always you. Only you."
"I know." Harry held her closer. "And I should never have left you there alone." He kissed her gently. "We start today, my Ruth. Right now. This is the beginning. Nothing else matters."
Harry kissed Ruth again, and together, they remembered.
"What was it that finally made your mind up?" Harry asked.
The rising sun was forming pools of colour on the bed and beginning to illuminate the room. Ruth lay contentedly in the crook of Harry's arm, watching the soft light play gently on his skin. Over the last year she'd found herself here so often in her mind, and then, once she'd chosen to be with George, she'd worked hard at forgetting how it had felt to be with Harry. The relaxation of finally allowing herself to simply be with him was impossible to describe.
Ruth didn't move, but began to answer softly. "Isabelle was talking about the shop, and the website, as we ate dinner the first night I was with her. We'd nearly finished the bottle of wine, and we'd laughed a lot about her learning curve with the internet, and how surprised she was that she now sort of understands it. Suddenly, she stopped talking, and the most extraordinary look came into her eyes."
Ruth moved up on her elbow and looked at Harry. "She said, 'I wish,' and then she stopped, and said it again, 'I wish.' And her voice had this kind of otherworldly sound to it, as if she'd gone somewhere far away for a moment." Ruth ran her fingers across Harry's chest as she remembered. "And finally, she said, 'I wish Pierre could see it.'"
Smiling, Ruth said, "I'd like to say it was something more earth-shattering. That the skies opened, and I had a sudden revelation of some kind, but it wasn't like that. She'd also said something earlier, about how quickly she would go to Pierre if she only had to travel the distance between Paris and London."
Ruth frowned slightly as she tried to put it into words. "I can't explain how plaintive her words were. I wish. Especially coming from Isabelle, who seems so able to negotiate whatever life throws at her. I knew in that moment that she would give nearly anything to have this ..." Ruth placed a hand on Harry's cheek. "... Or this ..." She leant up and kissed him, and Harry wrapped his arms more tightly around her. For a moment, they let those words sink in as they breathed together. I wish.
Ruth turned and nestled next to him again. "I know that since I've been back, I've struggled against you, Harry, and that this might sound too simple. But as I listened to her, I started thinking about being here again, in this house. I thought of you and how alive and real you are, and all the rest of it started somehow to get smaller. I realised that if Isabelle had the chance for one more day with Pierre, it wouldn't matter where he worked, or what had happened between them."
Ruth's hand was on Harry's chest as she lay next to him, and a sliver of the morning light caught the ring on her finger. She held it up and moved it gently back and forth, watching as pale colours emerged and changed in the bright silver. "I was awake most of that night, thinking. And the next day, I left her at the shop and returned to Sophie's life for a time. To my flat - well, not inside, of course, but across the street, to the small strip of grass, where I used to listen to children play through my open window as I wrote letters to Will Arden."
Harry's chest rose and fell with a deep breath at the memory of those letters, but he remained silent. He wanted to hear what she was thinking, the way he always wanted to know what his Ruth thought. After so much time apart, Harry thought he could listen to her talk all night.
"I walked on the bridge, the Passarelle, and sat on the bench where you and I talked about getting married. I had lunch at the cafe where you asked me, where we'd been with Tom and Christine. And I went to the church across from the Louvre and sat for a long time. And the whole day, I tried to finish the sentence that Isabelle had started for me. I wish ..."
For a moment, Ruth was silent, and Harry felt the warmth of her breath brushing across his chest, measured, even and calm. Then she began again. "The first answers to that question were rather angry, actually. I wished things were different. I wished you were the banker and I was the shopgirl. I wished I'd never dragged George and Nico into my life." Ruth sighed. "But those wishes were full of regret, and couldn't be changed. I told Jo once that I didn't want to feel powerless any more." Ruth paused. "Those wishes made me feel powerless again ..."
Now Ruth wanted to see Harry's eyes, so she turned and sat up, pulling the sheet around her. Harry sat up too, moving pillows behind his back. Their hands reached out naturally, easily, and entwined together. He played absently with her ring, running his finger across it as he had so many times since she'd been gone. When he'd held it then, the silver had simply been cold metal. Now it was warm from Ruth's body, alive with her.
Ruth continued, "So I started to ask myself: What do I wish, really? What's within my power? As I sat in the church, I did the most simple thing, Harry. I counted my blessings, and tried to think what was missing." Ruth looked deeply into Harry's eyes. "And what was missing was you."
Harry smiled and brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it. A moment ago, he'd been silent in order to give her the freedom to speak. Now, he was feeling so much that he wasn't certain he could speak even if he wanted to. Harry knew this was just a moment, but it felt as if a journey of nearly six years was somehow coming to an end in this conversation, and that a new journey was beginning.
Ruth smiled back at him, and said softly, "Did you know that Jo loved Zaf?"
Harry frowned slightly as he allowed the idea to take hold, and shook his head. Then, as he thought it through, it began to make sense, and a soft sigh escaped him on the sound of an "Ah." For a moment, they looked at each other in sadness and memory, and then Harry found his voice. "And Zaf?"
Ruth shrugged a little. "They never found out. But she thought so."
Harry smiled sadly. "So we weren't the only ones with secrets."
"It seems not."
Harry thought Ruth was more beautiful than he'd ever seen her. He leant forward and kissed her, gently. "I'm very glad I asked you to dinner on the roof that day."
Ruth laughed softly at the memory. "You really surprised me. There we were talking about thermobaric bombs, and suddenly you're doing the bread roll dance. My heart was pounding. I'm surprised I made any sense at all." Ruth began to twist the corner of the sheet absently in her hands. "I've thought so often in the last year ... well, longer even than that, I suppose ... about what if?" She looked across at Harry. "What if we'd never started this? What if I'd left it at no, and had never come over here that night? What if we'd never kissed, Harry? If we'd simply stayed colleagues?"
Frowning slightly, Ruth said, "I wouldn't have been here that morning Maudsley died. No Mace. No Paris. No Cyprus ... no George."
Harry shook his head gently. "I'm not certain I believe that. I know now that I loved you even before I realised it. Sooner or later, whether at Havensworth, or at the pub some night, or at a bus stop, it would have happened." Harry squeezed Ruth's hand lightly. "It's as if it was ... inevitable."
Ruth raised her eyebrows, and gave him a bemused look. "Are you talking about destiny? That doesn't sound like you."
Harry smiled, mildly embarrassed, and leant back on the pillows. "I'm not certain what I'm talking about, but I can't imagine my life without you, no matter what the circumstances were."
Harry watched Ruth's forehead take on the familiar folds as she thought. Then, shaking her head slightly, Ruth said, "I just can't get my mind around the concept of destiny right now. It's not only you and me, Harry. I pulled others into it, out of my own selfishness, and I'm having such a hard time reconciling that. How do you live with being the one who has caused someone to die?"
"Is that a literal question, or a rhetorical one?"
Ruth shrugged, "I suppose it can't be both, can it?" She looked up. "Literal, then."
Harry reached up and put his hand on her cheek. "I have to keep reminding myself that everyone has free will. In my case, there's no one that's been led to the Grid in irons, being told they have to do this work. It's a choice." And now he asked the rest of the question that he'd also wanted to ask on that terrible day in the warehouse. "You said you didn't love George. Did he know that?"
Ruth nodded, sadly. "I never deceived him in that way. I told him I still loved someone else. I didn't tell him who you were, or that I worked for MI5, but I couldn't, could I?" Harry's eyes held so much love in them that Ruth had to avert her gaze to the windows, which were beginning to brighten. "He told me he loved me. I think he always thought I'd learn to love him someday, but I never said it, or led him to believe I did." She looked back at Harry, and said simply, "I suppose that helps me to sleep at night."
Harry gave her a half-smile. "Then he had his eyes open. It was a choice. It wasn't his choice to be killed, certainly. But he chose to be with you, and with all that entailed."
Harry had seen a lot of the world, and although this conversation wasn't easy, he was glad to be having it. But he wasn't after all, made of stone, and talking about Ruth being with George brought up some strong feelings. Harry found he suddenly needed reassurance, so he asked, softly, "Just as you're choosing, I believe, to be with me? No matter what it entails?" It was a very big question, and Harry held his breath as he waited for the answer.
Ruth nodded. "Yes. That's what I'm choosing. For better or for worse, Harry." Ruth saw Harry exhale almost involuntarily, and she slid back into his arms. She would find a way, somehow, to convince him that there was never any danger of another man stealing her heart away from him. She knew now that it could only be borrowed. For a moment, they lay with eyes closed, silently taking in what they'd just said.
Harry spoke first, softly. "Will you see Nico again, do you think?"
Ruth sighed against his chest. "Not if his Aunt Christina can prevent it. But perhaps there will come a time, when he's older, that he can make his own decisions." Ruth paused. "I do know that we shared something, he and I."
"Malcolm told me how brave you were with the boy, when you told him his father had died." Harry stroked Ruth's hair absently, marvelling at its softness.
"Oh, I didn't feel very brave." Ruth held Harry just slightly tighter, remembering. "It was a terrible thing to have to do. I'm not even certain I recall what I said."
"I know," Harry said, nodding. "It was the same with Wes. They trust us so much to know what we're doing, don't they? They can't know how little separates us from them. Wes seemed more able to cope than I was."
Ruth sat up and turned to face Harry. "You told Wes? When Adam died?"
"Yes, I wrote to you about it ..." Harry smiled, realising it was one of his "recorded" letters. "Well, actually, I spoke about it, in a letter to you."
"What letter?" Ruth asked, frowning.
Harry gave a short laugh. "Oh, Malcolm invented some sort of incomprehensible contraption to record the diary that I insisted, against his advice, on continuing to write. He finally gave me something to speak into, a machine that would require the greatest minds of the century to hack into, I suppose."
"And you used it for letters to me? But you didn't send them?"
Harry sighed deeply. "I promised myself, and God, in desperation ... the night you were taken by Yalta ... that if you were allowed to get away to safety, I'd never contact you again – but I still needed to talk to you..." Harry stopped, and before he realised he was doing it, he looked up at the ceiling, slightly dismayed. Neither he nor Ruth had a stitch of clothing on, although they were discreetly covered by the bed sheets. Harry thought this might constitute "contact" in the eyes of a deity. "I've never made that sort of promise to God before," Harry said. "I certainly hope the Almighty takes my human frailty into account as he looks down on this little scene."
Ruth had known that Harry felt he'd been protecting her with his silence for the year on Cyprus, but this was the first time she'd heard him describe how he'd come to the decision, and how difficult it was. A promise to God. She couldn't imagine how desperately worried he must have been to do that.
"Oh, Harry. It was as hard for you as it was for me, wasn't it?"
Harry ran his finger gently across her lips. They were set in the frown that showed how much his words had affected her. "I'd like to say it was harder for me, but I suspect we felt it equally, my Ruth." Harry felt his eyes beginning to sting, and knew that tears wouldn't be far behind, so he brightened, and said, "So, yes. I have an entire year's worth of ramblings recorded."
"And do I get to listen to them?" Ruth asked, softly.
"They belong to you. You can listen anytime you'd like." Harry smiled, but his eyes were serious. "As long as you promise to still love me. I was a broken man without you. There's anger there, and tears. But always love."
Ruth smiled too. "Well, whilst I listen to yours, you can read the letters I wrote to you."
Raising his eyebrows, Harry said, "Letters to me? From Cyprus?" Ruth could see his delight at the idea. "Did you keep them?"
"Yes. I put them on Isabelle's server at l'Alcove. I got them and printed them last week." Ruth's cheeks coloured slightly. "I read them all again just before Malcolm's party. It's why I finally showed up. I had to see you again."
Harry's eyes grew tender as he gazed at her. "We never really let go of each other, did we?"
"No, I don't suppose we did," Ruth said. She laid down with her head on his chest, and Harry reached his arm around her. She was silent for a moment, and then she said, "You owe me a trip to the opera, Harry."
For a moment, Harry lay looking at the ceiling, wondering where that non sequitur had come from. Then Ruth felt his chest rise, and he exhaled loudly. "Ah. You saw the paper, didn't you?"
"She was lovely," Ruth said, in a slightly clipped tone.
Harry smiled into the glow of the rising sun, amused by Ruth's obvious jealousy. "She was Nicholas Blake's sister. On a rebound from a failed marriage. He all but begged me, and then he pulled rank." Harry held Ruth just a bit tighter, and his voice became more serious. "And she, my Ruth, practically secured you your new passport. She was the favour I called in. I'd say that was worth an evening of Boheme."
Ruth knew she had no right to ask, but she could also hear Harry's playful tone. "So, did you kiss her goodnight?"
Harry laughed. "O, beware of jealousy, it is the green-eyed monster..."
Ruth turned and laughed with him, saying, "And that's not an answer, is it?"
Pulling her into his arms, Harry kissed Ruth, and murmured into her hair, "No. I didn't kiss her. I was the perfect gentleman. Showed her to her door and thought of you all the way home, all night long, and up to this very minute..." Harry kissed Ruth again, quickly, and said, "But I'll happily take you to Boheme, if you'd like. Now. Today. Boheme is always playing somewhere."
"You also owe me a trip to the Louvre." Ruth was not a woman who pouted, but Harry thought she might be just on the verge.
Harry said softly, "It seems I'm badly in arrears." Then, raising his eyebrows slightly, he said, "But I recall that you sat in my office recently and asked me to yours for a home-cooked meal. Can we put that on the books as well, so I'll feel less in debt?"
Ruth peered into his eyes in silence for a moment, and Harry simply watched her. Ruth's eyes, so dear to him, amused, intelligent, and with such depth behind them. But it was the love she reflected back to him now that suffused him with a sense that, against all odds, things might just be alright after all.
She tilted her head slightly, and whispered, "It seems we have a lot to do together, Harry." Without thinking, Ruth looked down at her ring, and Harry followed her eyes. He picked up her hand and brought it to his lips, where he kept it while he gazed back at her.
Harry had no desire to change this moment, but his question was clear. He'd promised himself that nothing would stop him if he ever had the chance again to marry her. Now he raised his eyebrows, and allowed their instinctive telepathy to take over. They were each allowing the vision to flow back in - of a white dress and flowers, surrounded by good friends.
Ruth smiled, and even had the good grace to blush just a bit. "Lots to do," was all she said. She moved closer and kissed him, lingeringly. And then against his ear, she said, "But first, I'm hungry."
Harry laughed, saying, "This does not surprise me." He pulled away so he could see her face, and said, "Full English, I presume?"
"If possible," she said. She stood, taking the top sheet with her, and walked to the wardrobe.
Harry watched her put on an impeccably pressed dress shirt, and he was so full of love for her that he could hardly breathe. "You keep that up, I won't have any shirts left, you know."
Ruth walked over and took his hand. "Breakfast, please." Harry stood, and she put her arms high around his neck and kissed him again. "And after breakfast – a bubble bath. If you're a good boy, you may join me."
The look in her eyes was unmistakable. And once again, and not for the last time, Harry Pearce thought himself the luckiest man in the world.
~~~~~FINIS~~~~
No comments:
Post a Comment