CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The bell rang over the door, and Isabelle glanced up. "Bonjour," she said lightly to the pretty brunette who stepped into the shop. The woman smiled back at her, but not with a true smile. It was a polite smile, what one uses when one wants to appear contented. Isabelle thought that the smile did not fit with the eyes, which had a great sadness to them, and she was drawn by her natural compassion to want to know why.
Instead of turning away and beginning to browse, the woman walked toward Isabelle, with purpose. So, taking her glasses off of her nose, Isabelle focused her attention. She asked the young woman if she needed help with anything, "Est-ce que je peux vous aider?"
"Êtes-vous Isabelle Fontaine?"
"Oui."
The smile again. "Je suis Sophie Persan."
Ah, so she is here. And so sad. "Depuis combien de temps êtes vous à Paris?" Isabelle stopped and repeated, "How long have you been here?" She smiled at her guest, "You are English, yes?"
Ruth smiled back at her, for the first time a real smile of sorts, "Is my accent that bad?"
Isabelle took her hand and patted it, "No, no, your French is wonderful. The English does come through, a bit, yes, but you speak beautifully." She got up from her stool and began to walk around the counter. "I only want to practice my English, so we will speak your language. Do you mind?"
"No, not at all. But I need to practice my French as well, it seems."
"And you will have opportunity enough to do that, my dear." Isabelle beamed a smile. "You live in Paris now, Sophie."
Isabelle was immediately sorry that she had said it. She watched as Sophie's face clouded, became dark, and her eyes glistened suddenly with a profound sadness. So, she did not leave England by choice, and she left something very precious behind. But Sophie recovered quickly, Isabelle thought, and the mask was back. There was a deep story here, and perhaps she would trust her enough to tell it someday.
Ruth answered her question, "Four days. I've been here since Thursday."
And crying for nearly all of it, I'll wager, from the look of those eyes. Isabelle took her arm, and led her back through a doorway. "Let's make some tea, and we'll talk. We'll hear the bell from the back."
Ruth already liked her. Harry hadn't told her much about Isabelle Fontaine, only that she was a good woman, and Ruth felt that immediately. Isabelle was tall, nearly five-foot-ten, probably late-fifties, although she had childlike eyes with a sparkle in them that spoke of not only contentment, but of joy. Not large, but a substantial woman, imposing, with multicoloured grey hair that ran from steel to snow and was pulled into a long ponytail in the back. She had a sweet lilt to her voice that was charming.
Isabelle sat Ruth down in a soft chair that had seen better days, its grey and blue damask cover worn in spots, the threads distinct, separate. Ruth fell into it, and for the first time since she'd set foot in France, she felt warm and held. Isabelle spoke while she filled the kettle, a sort of ongoing monologue that wasn't in the least irritating, but seemed more of a narration of events, as if she stood outside herself and commented. It sounded to Ruth almost as if she were singing to herself. "So, I think the Earl Grey will make you feel at home, yes?"
The pause let Ruth know that an answer was required, and she looked up and smiled in a way that she hoped would be cheery, but came across more as wistfulness. "Yes, thank you. That would be wonderful."
Isabelle held Ruth's eyes for just a moment longer, and there was such compassion in them that Ruth needed to look down to collect herself. She made a show of straightening her skirt, and just then, the bell rang out in the main shop. Isabelle peeked around the corner, "Un moment," she sang out, and then she looked back at Ruth. "Be comfortable. I will come back, Sophie." And she was gone through the doorway.
Ruth looked around at the back of the shop, and decided at once that she was needed here. There were books everywhere, and stacked in ways that defied any type of category. They seemed simply to have landed where they had fallen, and from there were left to their own devices as they gathered dust, trying valiantly to keep in balance and avoid toppling to the floor. There was a small table with a computer, and it had fared no better. It seemed merely a place to put more books, its keyboard covered now, the screen invisible behind the stacks.
Standing up, Ruth found her way through one of the accessible walkways, trailing a finger here, raising a cover there. Seeing a travel book on Corfu and then passing one on Crete, she put them together on a small open area of the shelf, saying aloud, softly, "Say hello to each other," and she smiled a genuine smile. The kind of smile that said there might be hope of, if not happiness, then at least usefulness, and a way to pass the time that offered some measure of peace.
Another pair showed itself, a book of poetry by Lord Byron and one by John Keats. Then Ruth discovered a volume by Percy Shelley, and there were three in the stack. Rummaging around in the kitchenette, Ruth found an old towel, and now she cleared a shelf and dusted it, beginning her stacks in earnest. French translations, then German, English, Italian.
The kettle decided to boil, so Ruth threw the towel over her shoulder and poured the hot water into the china teapot that Isabelle had set out along with the cups, all decorated in pink roses with the apple green of leaves curling around them. She left the tea to steep and returned to the stacks, anxious to continue.
As she worked, Ruth felt something shift in her, just by a fraction. Another step in acceptance, and she breathed deeply into it. For the last four days she'd felt as if she had truly stepped into someone else's life. She knew that was the aim, being Sophie Persan, but the disconnection of really doing it had left her nearly incapable of rational thought.
The boat ride had taken her from the wide mouth of the Thames and into the sea, around the point, past Ramsgate, to Boulogne-sur-Mer, where a car was waiting. There was a silent drive through Amiens and on into Paris, during which she had dozed fitfully, and then suddenly, she stood on a narrow street across from a strip of park on the Rue du Banquier. She looked down at her one bag and realised that it was the same bag she had packed for Bath, lifetimes ago, and it was really all she owned now.
The sun was beginning to move low in the sky, and Ruth remembered that she had gone through a time change, that it was even one hour later than in London. She and Zaf had shared a scone and coffee on their way to the docks, and Zaf had been thoughtful enough to pack her a sandwich and an apple for the boat ride, but other than that, Ruth hadn't eaten since the Chinese with Harry in the middle of the night before.
Harry. Every time she thought of him it hurt, and she thought of him all the time. For some reason, the look on his face as he said, "You take care, yes?" had been playing in an endless loop in her head. A phrase so sweet and formal, but with so much devastation beneath it that he had tried to hide from her. The effort that he made, submerging his own pain for her, had touched Ruth deeply. The feel of their final kiss on the dock was still on her mouth, the sensation moving from her lips to the back of her neck and up into her eyes, where the tears would start.
Ruth pushed them down now, looking up at the whitewashed building, the bright red of the geraniums standing out cheerfully in the window boxes above her. She took the key that Harry had given her and moved through the forest-green double doors of number 2, Rue du Banquier. Up in the ancient black wrought-iron lift to the fifth floor, and down the hall to her apartment door, also green, with the black iron number 53.
The front door stepped into a small lounge, furnished with an apple-red sofa and glass table, bright white walls and dark hardwood floors. Two large windows looked out on to the street. On her left was a very small kitchen, with barely enough room for an oven, microwave, fridge and washer, but it was also furnished, right down to the bright red potholders and towels.
Beyond the lounge was a door leading to the ten square metre bedroom that was all but filled with a double bed, a wardrobe and two night tables. The bath, just off the bedroom, was completely tiled in shades of green and cream, with a large shower and a window looking over the courtyard below.
Ruth walked back out to the lounge and sat down on the sofa, her bag still in her hand, and her stomach rumbled, as she remembered her hunger. On a whim, she stood up, went to the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator. She smiled, gratefully taking in the sight of fresh eggs, cheese, butter, apples, lettuce, tomatoes and onions. A bottle of white burgundy lay on its side on the shelf. In the bread keeper was a loaf of fresh sourdough.
Finally taking off her coat, she set about making herself an omelette and toast. Ruth couldn't shake the feeling that she was trespassing somehow, that at any moment the owner of this apartment would walk through the door and ask her to leave. She was so exhausted at this point, she knew that she would eat and then sleep, and was glad of the cosiness of the small space. It didn't feel like hers, but it was a place she could be in some comfort.
Ruth took a plate down from the cupboard, and although she would have liked a cup of tea, she simply didn't have the energy to sort out where things might be. She filled her plate and walked back out to the lounge. Now she saw the small dining table and two chairs that had been hidden from her view as she first walked in. It was pushed up against the wall opposite the sofa, and someone had taken the trouble to put fresh flowers on it.
As Ruth put her plate on the table, she saw that against the vase of flowers was a small card. She picked it up and it had only the words, Je t'aime.
Now she let the tears come, and they fell hot and full onto the plate in front of her. She cried until there were no more tears, then she ate because she had to, but tasted nothing. She left the dishes on the table and walked to the bed, undressed and crawled between the clean, white sheets. She fell fast asleep with the small card clutched in her hand.
When Ruth finally woke, it was nearly ten o'clock of the next morning, Friday. She stretched and opened her eyes, and for a moment was completely lost. Then, as understanding dawned, she sighed raggedly and vowed to get on with her life, whatever it might be.
She unpacked her bag, folding Harry's white shirt tenderly into the wardrobe drawer after holding it to her face and breathing deeply of it for a time. She took a long, hot shower, and reconciled herself to the newness of this place and what she must do. When Ruth went back to tidy up the bed, she found the card under her pillow. She set it on the night table where she would see it first thing every morning and last thing each night.
And then she ventured out into her new neighbourhood. There was a small bar and restaurant just down from her apartment, and she found an array of markets, cafes, and a variety of other shops within walking distance. The Metro was only a block-and-a-half walk down the Rue Dumeril, where there was an Indian restaurant, a Salon de The and Patisserie Orientale.
The one thing Ruth didn't have, but craved, were books, as there were none in the apartment. Although she knew it was ludicrous since she would very soon be working in a bookshop, she looked for one nearby. She wasn't ready to go to l'Alcove just yet.
She found a small shop, and purchased a used paperback of Northanger Abbey. It was a promise she had made on the drive back from Bath with Harry. She wanted to read the story again with her new sense of the place, imagining herself in a different way. She hadn't imagined it would be quite this different, as she looked at the cover and read, Abbaye de Northanger, but it seemed appropriate somehow that her new imagining would be in a new language as well.
And now, after four days of tears, intermittent desperation, glimmers of hope, the oblivion of much-needed sleep, a cursory Parisian exploration, and an ache for Harry that astonished her daily with its intensity, she stood on the brink of her new life in the back room of l'Alcove Booksellers.
By the time Isabelle re-emerged from the doorway, Ruth had made her way though the better part of a quarter of a shelf, and there was the lovely aroma of Earl Grey suffusing the air.
"Je suis désolé, Sophie, people simply do not know what they want … " Isabelle looked at Ruth's face, and beamed. "Ah, you have found a use for your hands, and it has made you truly smile."
Ruth turned to her, and her eyes danced just a bit, clear and open, as she spoke authoritatively, "You need me."
Isabelle laughed. "Yes, my dear, I do. It is precisely what I told your friend James." Isabelle saw Sophie frown, just slightly, before she raised her eyebrows, and said, "Ah, yes, James." But it was enough to see so many things. Of course his name is not James, Isabelle thought. And it suddenly struck her that it was likely that this sad young woman was not named Sophie. But what she saw most clearly was that the mention of his name and the feeling of melancholy were inextricably entwined.
Isabelle took the towel from Ruth and put her arm around her. "Come. Drink tea with me. Those books have stood for longer than I wish to think. They will be satisfied to wait another hour." She looked into Ruth's eyes and said solemnly. "I will not ask you questions. You will tell me whatever you wish to tell me, Sophie." The way Isabelle said her name, Ruth knew she suspected it was not the one she was given at birth.
In just a moment, Ruth was back in the chair with a hot cup of tea. Isabelle put out a matching plate of galettes in front of Ruth and she took one, biting into the sweet crunchiness of the cookie. And then Isabelle sat, looking benevolently at Ruth over the rim of her cup. Ruth found herself smiling again. She spoke softly to Isabelle. "I like it here. May I call you Isabelle?" To the older woman's vigorous nod, Ruth repeated, "I like it here, Isabelle."
"I am very glad of that, Sophie."
Ruth knew she shouldn't ask, but she couldn't seem to help herself. She longed for news of Harry. "You said you spoke to my friend. James?"
Isabelle smiled warmly. "Yes, he asked if I could find a place for you here. He said you could do everything well, that you were very bright, and that you loved books." She took another sip of her tea. "I told him I couldn't wish for a better companion." She laughed softly as she looked around. "And I think as you so suitably put it, I need you."
Ruth tried to appear nonchalant. She raised her eyebrows and attempted another smile at Isabelle. "And ... what else did he say?" Ruth thought Isabelle's eyes were beautiful, hazel but with silver flecks, as if they were fine, polished stones.
Tilting her head, Isabelle said very softly, "He told me I should take care of you, Sophie. Qu'a-t-il dit? Ah, yes, he said I should take you under my wing." Isabelle reached forward and patted Ruth's hand. "I think he cares for you very much, Sophie." She stayed there, leaning forward, and held Ruth's eyes with great intensity. "But you already know that, don't you, dear? That he cares for you?"
It was too much. Isabelle's kindness unlocked the tears that Ruth had so meticulously hidden before she walked out of her door this morning. Before Ruth knew it, one had slipped noiselessly down her cheek, and then another. Quickly, Isabelle had found a tissue and was dabbing at Ruth's cheeks. "Oh, Sophie, dear. Non, ne pleurez pas. Don't cry."
And all Ruth could think was, some bloody spook. My first real day as Sophie Persan, and I have already as good as given up my biggest secret.
~~~~~
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Scarlet clearly had a job to do, and she was taking it very seriously. Her walks were, for her, a time of very stern business. Every bush must be checked, every suspicious smell authorized. If only her tail could cease its cheerful wagging, people would know how important her job was.
Today, Harry let her have her way. He usually spent their walks saying, "C'mon, girl!" to her as he tugged gently at her leash, but today he found himself lost, a bit. In fact, Scarlet had managed to satisfy herself that an entire row of hedges was safe to pass, and then she had simply sat herself down, peering up at him, puzzled, waiting for him to move to the next one.
Harry had always spent an uncommon amount of time in his thoughts, but it seemed to be increasing lately. Scarlet waited, her little pink tongue curled up in her mouth, her breath coming in short bursts, but her eyes firmly on him. Harry was standing, his eyes focused somewhere in the distance, thinking.
Another officer lost. One who had sat in Ruth's chair for only a few days. He hadn't liked Sally much, but he hadn't had time to separate out how much of it was the wretchedness he felt at not seeing Ruth's radiant face at that desk, and how much of it was simply Sally's way of working. In any case, it didn't matter now, Harry thought sadly. Another life gone.
And Harry's first thought had been that it might have been Ruth. That Neil Sternin might have targeted his Ruth if she had been the one sitting in that chair. But his second thought was that she would have been too smart to fall for it, would have come to him and told him what Sternin was doing and it all would have been over sooner. And his third thought was, well, the same as his fourth and fifth and every one after it. My Ruth. Harry felt as if a whole part of him had been mislaid. In fact, he felt nearly as paralysed as Juliet, his brain functioning on autopilot, making decisions as it always had, but the rest of him numb, lifeless, vacant, poured out.
On the dock nine days ago, he'd watched Ruth's boat until it disappeared. Then for some time after he could no longer see it, he had simply watched the lapping of the grey water, his gloved hands moving ineffectually at his sides as if they had frozen solid and he was trying to restore them to feeling. Harry found himself unwilling to move toward the car, to step into the next stage, because a part of her was still there with him. He knew that as soon as he left the dock, it would be real, and he would have to face the inevitability of her absence.
And then the funeral, at which he had truly grieved, his heart throbbing not only for Ruth, but for the nameless woman who made Ruth's departure possible. When he was told to bow his head, it was her forgiveness he had asked. It was the first time he had refused a request to speak at the funeral of one of his officers. It simply wasn't a possibility.
Instead, he sat with Adam on one side and Malcolm on the other, as the minister spoke of Ruth's friends and colleagues from the Department for the Environment, Food and Rural Affairs, and he struggled in vain to banish the image of her in Bath, her eyes shining, the soft light playing off of the silk of her skin.
On occasion in his work, Harry had spoken to people addicted to drugs, although he'd never gone in for that sort of thing himself. Scotch tended to mellow the body, rather than energise it, but he understood from talking with enough of them that the high of many drugs resembled somewhat how he had felt for the weeks leading up to that cold morning at the docks. The euphoria, the heightened sense of self, the wonder of new emotions, the unbridled and unselfconscious connection to another.
These were not the ways that Harry was conditioned to interact in the world. Events had thrown him into that state, and now diametrically opposed events had thrust him from it. He was somewhat dizzy, disoriented, and at present, after the rush of Ruth's departure and their last few days of grasping for whatever they could have to remember of each other, Harry was breathing deeply, trying to get his bearings.
What he knew beyond all else was that he was without her, in withdrawal as it were, and he felt acutely each of the moments that made up a day. Not just one moment of missing her, but a series of instants, folding and refolding on top of each other. Each second wanting her, every time denying himself, and because the need was never fulfilled, it never went away. And the continuous process of pushing those moments down, of self-control and self-denial, was interminably exhausting.
He knew where she was. A little more than two hours away. He had mapped out the route a thousand times in his head, had imagined just going to St. Pancras, boarding the Eurostar, arriving at the Gare du Nord in Paris, then a taxi. Such an easy thing to do, and the need would be satisfied.
But Harry knew he was being watched, he could feel their eyes everywhere. Mace had been cut off at the knees by the Cotterdam scandal, but Harry knew better than to believe he was truly gone. In the same way that Harry had his loyal officers, as everyone on the Grid had been when Harry had been fired by Juliet, Mace had his henchmen. Not officially, but they were there, under the radar. Oliver had been humiliated, and Harry wasn't fool enough to think he had seen the last of him.
Even now, as he stood with Scarlet, he could see the car across the street, meant to be inconspicuous, but to Harry, patently obvious. He would have done the same, if he were Mace. The drowning was too tidy, too convenient, and Oliver's sceptical eyebrow would have raised in question at the news. So in his strong moments, Harry made himself promise that he would bide his time and keep Ruth safe.
In his weak moments, his heart felt as if it would leap from his body, and he lost touch with what was right or wrong. He knew only that he craved her. Her soft skin, the smell of lavender, the music of her laughter, the brightness of her mind. He had taken to crossing days off the calendar as he would on a prison wall, as if he were scratching the marks with a sharp piece of rock, obliterating them from his consciousness. And he realised that he was willing his life to pass, asking it to blur by him until whatever unknown day had arrived from the future, the day he could hold her again.
But of course Harry Pearce continued to do his job, and to do it well. That, after all, had been the reason for Ruth's sacrifice. Only those closest to him could see the alteration, the moments when his eyes went flat, like death had overtaken them, or they were peering into a past that no one else could see. Harry had always been masterful at self-control, but only he, himself, knew how much more of it was needed since the day Ruth left. Only Harry knew how close to the edge he truly was.
This week they had overcome the takeover of the Saudi Embassy. They'd lost Sally, and they'd almost lost Ros, but a worse terror was averted, and Harry was grateful for four more days gone by. He managed, when he was on the Grid, to focus his energies and his wits toward solving problems, but God help him when the crisis was over. Ruth was always waiting, patiently, relentlessly, on the periphery. When the space opened up again, she flooded back in to him, drowning him, taking him with her into an abyss of memories.
He'd tried just spending the night working, staying later and later, but his eyes always drifted to her desk, now empty again, dark, cold, and prone to visions. Harry thought he was losing his mind at one point, as her image, more real than the hologram of dreams, appeared. A trick of the light, perhaps, but he had walked out to the Grid later that night, completely alone, to be certain there wasn't some residual energy, a fragment of her that she had left behind. And then, he'd sat in her chair, as she had once sat at his, and he laid his head on her desk, hoping to feel her somewhere on its cool surface.
What stung the most was that she had done it for him. So through it all was the effort to clear her. When other matters on the Grid didn't require his immediate attention, he worked his way through every avenue, every possible person who could be Fox. He kept up daily with news of Oliver Mace, watching his rapid slide from power. Harry got his hands on every piece of information he could, poring over meeting minutes, JIC and otherwise, whatever he managed to procure. Zaf and Malcolm were both tasked to keep him informed of any chatter that was even remotely connected to Cotterdam, or Acts of Truth, or Mace's people.
It was slow going, but Harry lived for the day that he would simply show up on her doorstep, take her in his arms, and tell her she could come home. And he hoped that the home she would come to, where Phoebe and Fidget could now generally be found sleeping warmly curled together on the window seat, would be his.
Harry felt a tug on his hand, and looked down. Scarlet's head tilted to the left, her concern evident. He bent and gave her a scratch behind the ears. "Sorry, girl. Not all here, am I?" Harry stood, and resumed his walk to the news agent to pick up his Times. It was Saturday, two weeks since they'd been together in Bath, nine days crossed off the calendar. Today was one more day to get through, one more hour to remember to breathe, one more minute to simply put one foot in front of the other.
Ruth had managed to uncover the desk, chair and computer, and had removed some of the dust from the room, letting fresh air in through the windows. She was completely absorbed with her task, and powerfully grateful for it. Twelve days without Harry, without England, without the Grid, and the pain had retreated enough so that she could take a deep breath without always adding a sigh at the finish.
She'd been finding a balance of what she felt she could and could not do. What would or would not draw attention to her. She watched people's eyes, felt for movements behind her as she followed her path from her apartment to the Metro, to the shop, stopping for coffee, a quick trip for groceries, then back home. Ruth was beginning to relax a bit. She seemed safe and undiscovered for the present.
She hadn't been able to keep herself from the Times, which she studied front to back each morning. She'd read about the takeover at the Saudi Embassy, knowing that the neat wrap-up on page three was only part of the story. She stood on the outside now, with the bankers and the shopgirls, the members of the public, and Ruth dissected the article, word by word, trying to find Harry there. As she ran her fingertips across the words, successful conclusion, assistance of the Security Services, crisis averted, it was as if she were running her fingers across his cheeks, his lips, feeling him say the words.
Ruth closed her eyes and saw him on the Grid, the high level of alert, the decisions he must have made. She wondered if anyone had been hurt or died, Zaf, Adam, Jo, Ros. And she knew it wouldn't be in the paper. And then, for an instant of horror, she thought, What if ... what if Harry … what if Harry was the part of the story that they weren't telling. And as the adrenaline coursed through her body, she told herself to stop. Now. You will lose your mind if you do this.
But the helplessness of not knowing wouldn't leave her, and a seed was sown. I need to find a way to know or I will go mad. Not to talk to Harry, although she longed for it, but to know he was all right. Just a touch in the dark, to feel him there, real, substantial. Second hand, third hand, she didn't care, she had to know. So Ruth's expert analyst's mind worked on the challenge, like a computer running a background program. Through every conversation with Isabelle, every step on the street, every ride on the Metro, from the moment she awoke until she finally drifted off to sleep.
And now she had an idea. She sat in the newly polished wooden chair, arranged her notebook and pens, and pressed the button to boot up the computer. Isabelle's son had set it up for her, hoping in vain to bring his mother into the computer age, but lacking the time to give her a proper education. And as Ruth waited for the screen to come alive, she thought about the conversation she'd had with Isabelle yesterday.
"You have some rare first editions here, did you know that?" Ruth was holding a Moroccan leather volume, with gilt on the spine and raised bands, and the title Iconografia de Orchidaceas do Brasil. "How would you price this, Isabelle?" She handed the book with botanical depictions of hundreds of species of orchids to her, and Isabelle took it, running her hands over its cover, opening it to the lovely colour plates inside. Isabelle shrugged, and raised her eyebrows at Ruth.
"Well, my dear, no one has asked for it, so I'm not certain what I might say. Twenty-five, perhaps? I would ask them, I suppose, how much they desire it." At this, she smiled openly, in the way that always made Ruth smile.
Ruth took the book back from her. "Isabelle. This is a first edition from 1949. It's worth well over a hundred pounds." Ruth calculated quickly in her head, "Almost 140 Euros. And this one," she held up another leather-bound volume, Napoleon I et Sons Temps, Histoire Militaire. "The same." Ruth swept her hand, indicating the full room with its stacks of books. "I've only sorted through a fraction of these, and who knows how many more there are. You have some rare books, Isabelle."
Isabelle smiled at her and shook her head. "Oh, my dear, all books are rare to me. I have what I have, I am a bookshop, yes?" She ran her fingers through the dust on an untouched stack. "The problem is finding them when I need them, and you are a blessed help in that."
Ruth continued, undeterred. "You could use the money, I think? If I could sell some of these for you? Not at the prices you're charging, but at their actual value?"
"I would not lie to you and say money is not welcome. Times are not the best, and some see books as a luxury. Of course, I disagree." She pointed with disdain at the computer, "And that thing, mon Dieu, some read books on it? How can you read without the feel of the pages, the smell of the paper in your hand?"
Ruth laughed. "Well, that thing, Isabelle, could make your life easier, and I can help you." She looked affectionately at the older woman. "Will you trust me?"
Isabelle had laughed as well, whilst looking at the computer as if it might rise up and bite her, "Oh, my dear, as long as you won't ask me to touch it, yes, of course, I trust you."
As she waited for the computer to finish booting up, Ruth put her left hand up to her necklace. She now knew exactly where the charms were, and unconsciously, her fingers moved there to separate and hold the delicate pieces of silver, moving them away from each other and then together again.
The screen came to life, and Ruth smiled. So she had not only the basics, but internet access as well, which Isabelle must have been paying for all this time without a clue as to what it was. Ruth paused, her fingers on the keyboard. How many times had she watched and learned as Malcolm created false websites? She had even created some herself. But now, Ruth created a real one, a website for l'Alcove Booksellers, offering rare and old editions.
And of course, this website required a mailing list, which consisted of Isabelle's haphazardly hand-written records of her sales, kept in numerous small file boxes in some semblance of alphabetical order.
There was one addition, however. One person who had never purchased a book from l'Alcove. A certain Martin Wingate. The name would be a mystery to Isabelle, and to anyone else who might see it. But Ruth knew that name well. It was a name Malcolm had used often. Martin Wingate owned a secure email address, untraceable, that Malcolm checked often on the Grid.
So, after finishing the website, Ruth began the painstaking process of creating the mailing list, but she did it with great joy, because through it all, there was Harry. Every character she typed, she was writing to him, as if she were building a bridge across the water that separated them. And when she reached the end of the alphabet, and typed in Martin Wingate's name, she felt Harry's arms around her, his kisses soft at her neck.
In fact, she took herself back for a moment, eyes closed, to the place she said she would never forget. The night at Havensworth, with the moonlight tracing patterns on the floor and Harry curled warm behind her. And as she began the letter she would send from Isabelle to each of her customers, she was writing not to the hundreds of recipients, but to just one. "My dear friend, I am very excited to announce a new way to communicate with you ... "
Harry took the pen from his top drawer, the red one, and performed his daily ritual, crossing off the date on the calendar. Eighteen days. He peered through the glass again, as he did every day. Empty, still. First Ruth, then Sally, and now it seemed cursed, that chair, so no effort had been made to fill it. He spoke to Ruth in his head, as he did so often now.
I missed you today. Asked a simple question, got a simple answer, which was never the case when you were here, my love. Who are the Sons of Phineas? You would have known. Instead, I got what I could have gotten myself off Google. Looked for analysis and got a roomful of blank stares. I missed you today. What an inadequate phrase. Might just as well say I missed oxygen today.
There was a knock, and Harry looked up to see Malcolm standing in his doorway. "A minute, Harry?"
Harry closed the file he wasn't reading anyway, and leant back in his chair. "Absolutely. Come in, Malcolm." Harry welcomed the intrusion, and he was curious, because Malcolm seldom came to his office. He was holding a piece of paper in his hand, which he placed in front of Harry before sitting uncomfortably straight-backed on one of the chairs set up against the glass.
"Yes?" Harry said it before he actually looked at the paper. Once he did look, he knew he needn't ask why Malcolm had brought it to him. Malcolm had a somewhat smug look on his face, the one he wore when he had the answer to a particularly sticky problem. His eyebrows were raised as he watched his old friend lose his composure. After seeing Harry mope around for the better part of three weeks, Malcolm thought, highly amused,Well, that's got his attention.
Harry looked up at Malcolm, and his mouth opened, then closed again. He stood and walked to the door, closing it. He doubted very strongly that his office was being monitored by any of Mace's people, but where Ruth was concerned he conducted his business as if it were. Now he spoke to Malcolm, his voice even, measured. "And the gentleman here?"
Malcolm answered, just the hint of a smile curling one side of his mouth, "Is me."
"And that was known by the sender?" Harry's heart was beating a bit faster now.
"Without question."
"This is secure?"
"Utterly."
"It can be answered safely?"
"I can guarantee it from this end, yes."
Harry broke into a smile that Malcolm thought might have taken his old friend unaware, because he quickly subdued it. "Thank you, Malcolm. I appreciate your having brought this to me. I will formulate an appropriate reply and get it to you within the hour." Malcolm stood, and Harry impulsively took his hand in both of his and shook it, vigorously.
After a surprised start at the unusual contact, Malcolm managed to gently extricate his hand. "You're most welcome, Harry." Malcolm smiled genuinely at him, and remembering a favourite verse, spoke slowly, deliberately, "It will find out the way."
Harry knew the poem.
Over the mountains and over the waves,
Under the fountains and under the graves,
Under floods that are deepest which Neptune obey,
Over rocks that are steepest, Love will find out the way.
Still at the door, Harry watched his friend walk down the hallway and laughed, softly, his heart expanding in his chest. Yes, she would find a way, wouldn't she? Dear God, Ruth, is any institution safe from you? I'd like to think not.
He walked back to his desk and felt light, as if he had been living in a stiflingly tight space and now strode into the air. The piece of paper was still in his hands, more precious than anything he could imagine. It was a way to her, a means of easing his restlessness, a manner of knowing she was safe, a medium in which he could tell her he loved her still, and would always.
An hour later, Harry stood behind Malcolm as he pressed "send," and a thrill went through him. As if he was touching her again somehow, across the miles. Harry exhaled and narrowed his eyes, willing the unending love he felt to go with it.
RE: Your Much-Appreciated Correspondence
To Whom It May Concern:
Thank you for the very welcome information regarding your new website. To say it was received with gratitude would be an understatement. I believe I will be taking full advantage of your expertise in the area of fine and rare books, and you should expect to hear from me on a very regular basis.
I have also passed your information on to an associate, a Mr. William Arden, who is currently immersed in a study of Romanticism, although he also has recently developed a strong interest in Atlanticism. He is unable to access the internet, and will therefore correspond with you by way of this email address.
Again, it is very gratifying to know that we are in contact with as resourceful a person as yourself. I have had some experience with the construction of websites, and I must say, I am very impressed with the results of your efforts.
Yours most sincerely,
Martin Wingate
~~~~~
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
It worked.
Ruth held her hands to her mouth and managed to suppress the shout that almost escaped, knowing that Isabelle would come running from the front of the shop to find out what was the matter. Instead, Ruth contained herself and read the email over and over again with shining eyes and a joyfully rising heart. She dearly loved the magnificent, sublime, fictional Martin Wingate more than she could express.
She did allow herself a muffled, giddy laugh at the Romanticism and Atlanticism references, and at the name William Arden. Harry's sense of humour was still intact, at the least. She doubted that he had shared with Malcolm the details of that gentleman's check-in at the Windsor Guest House in Bath, but honestly, Ruth just couldn't give a fig anymore.
She felt the same elation coming from Harry's words. They nearly leapt off the page at her. They were such small things, these few words, but Ruth knew what they meant. The bridge she had built was holding, safe and firm, across the channel. And now she wanted to tell him everything, all about her life in Paris, her apartment, Isabelle, her job, the Patisserie Orientale, the Metro, La Place des Vosges. All of the new places and things she had seen became the subjects of potential conversations with Harry, which made them infinitely more cheerful than they were just one short minute ago.
Ruth closed her eyes and breathed deeply, feeling a calm descend on her that she hadn't felt since Bath. This was a way to touch Harry, but it was also more, a way to touch her past, who she was. Like a road map from there to here, it was the correlation she was missing in this new life. It was what she was asking for on that forbidding morning with Zaf on the dock. Recognition. Acknowledgement. Ruth suddenly felt herself become solid again, as if she had been ephemeral, somehow transparent during these days in Paris.
The bell in the front of the bookshop rang a number of times in quick succession. It was Monday, and the shop was typically busy. She read the three paragraphs again quickly, trying to commit them to memory. Then she saved the message, saying a quiet "Thank you, Malcolm," to the screen before closing it down. Ruth got up and walked out to help Isabelle.
It turned out to be a very busy day, and she wasn't able to get back to the computer until almost six. Ruth always automatically subtracted an hour from the clock as she looked at it. She still felt herself on London time, as one tends to do on holiday. So it was five, and although she knew the Grid never ran on bankers' hours, she worried that she might not get back to Harry and Malcolm in time today, so Ruth quickly wrote an email to send off.
Dear Mr. Wingate,
I was very gratified to receive your response. Although email can be a somewhat sterile way to communicate, I find myself especially glad that it allows us to connect with each other, don't you agree? L'Alcove has quite an extensive selection of books. If there's anything you don't see on the website, please let me know, and I'll do my best to find it.
On a personal note, I have a great passion for both Romanticism and Atlanticism, so it seems Mr. Arden and I may have some feelings in common. I would welcome a correspondence with him on those subjects, although he should be warned that I've been known to express my opinion rather freely. In fact, a very dear friend once told me that I'm a bit of a mule at times. I hold out hope that will not deter your associate from writing to me. I'm new to Paris, and would look forward to the diversion of a bit of literary back and forth.
I'll keep this short as I wish to reply to your very welcome note as soon as possible. Please pass on my most heartfelt thanks to Mr. Arden for his interest. He can't imagine how it has brightened my day to know that another feels as I do.
My best wishes,
Mlle. Sophie Persan
L'Alcove Booksellers
Ruth read it over quickly again, and decided it had the right combination of the necessary formality and personal undertone, and she clicked "send." Last time, she had sent a quest out into the air, unknowing. This time, it was sent directly to Harry, and another fragment of acceptance fell into place. The desperation she felt at not knowing where he was and whether he was safe was easing now. She knew if anything happened, Malcolm would let her know.
And what an exquisite luxury to be able to write to Harry! It was more than she could have imagined as she said goodbye, more than she had dared hope, even as she wrote to Malcolm. Ruth recognised that there was an inherent danger in this connection, but she also knew that Harry would never have answered if he didn't feel confident that the level of danger was low.
Sighing deeply, Ruth smiled and closed her eyes. In her mind, she flew across the channel, over the water, taking the reverse of the journey she had taken eighteen days ago. She saw her beloved Harry at his desk, frowning over some nagging problem, his fingers splayed and pressing into his forehead, his mouth pursed in thought.
She imagined herself walking up behind him, leaning down quietly, and putting her arms around his neck. His hands would move up to her, and he would want to turn around, but she would hold him there, her lips next to his ear, and she would whisper, "I love you." He would relax in an exhale and lean into her, saying, "Mmmm, I love you too."
And Ruth knew that if they were able to do that right now, the whole world could be watching outside the fishbowl of his office and she and Harry wouldn't give it a second thought.
Why had it had been so important to her not to be talked about? How silly it all seemed in retrospect. Ruth shook her head, sighing. Good God, what are they saying now? Well, that I'm dead, for one thing, thrown myself off a bridge or some such, after killing a man. Bit of a step up from simple gossip, yes, Ruth ... ?
"That is what you would call a ... rueful smile? Is that the correct word, Sophie?" Ruth looked up with a jolt, and saw Isabelle standing in the doorway, amused.
Ruth laughed softly, "Yes, I believe rueful would be exactly the right word."
Isabelle walked over to the chair in the kitchen and sat down, grateful to be off her feet. She was still looking at Ruth and smiling. "Which is surprising to me, my dear, because you have had a new lightness in you today, as if something good has happened." She slipped off her shoes and pulled her legs under her on the chair. "Do I imagine it?"
"No, you're psychic, as usual. Sometimes I believe we share the same brain, my dear Isabelle." Ruth tilted her head at her new friend. "But will you mind terribly if I keep the reason to myself?"
"Ce n'est pas un problème." Isabelle smiled at her warmly. "I don't need to know, my dear. It is enough to see you happy."
Ruth looked at her in thanks, and thought to change the subject. "The website is doing well."
Isabelle simply shook her head in wonder. "If you say so, that is good. I appreciate that you are, as my son says, dragging me into this century."
Ruth laughed again. "Well, I hope not painfully, Isabelle. But it will help the business. You'll see." Ruth stood. "Would you like some tea?" She moved toward the kitchenette.
"Ah, yes, delicious." Isabelle turned in the chair to face Ruth as she moved about and filled the kettle.
Ruth realised that this new contact with Harry had freed something up in her, something that had been held tightly in control, just on the edge of spilling over. She turned her back to Isabelle to concentrate on the tea, and then took a deep breath. Ruth sensed now that she could ask Isabelle a question without giving away too many of her own feelings. Isabelle's sweet and compassionate nature, not to mention her unusual perception, had the effect of making Ruth want to tell her everything, so she had been very careful up to now.
"Isabelle?" She spoke with her back still turned. "I know it's not quite fair that I tell you nothing, but do you mind if I ask you something?" Now Ruth turned and looked at her, and she nodded her assent with a smile. "How do you know James?"
Isabelle's eyebrows raised, and she took a deep breath, but she still wore an enigmatic smile. "Ah, yes, a long time ago, it seems now." She watched for a moment as Ruth turned back to the tea. "Well, my dear, you have your secrets, and so do I, but I will tell you some of it." Ruth turned quickly back to her, and as soon as she satisfied herself that Isabelle didn't mind her asking, she began to fill the china pot again.
Isabelle sighed softly. "My husband, Pierre, died three years ago and two months, he was quite a bit older than I. When we met, we were bothidéalistes, very rebellious, and I was very young. He came by it through his family, his father was a leader in the Resistance. I came by it through love for him."
Taking the cup Ruth offered her, Isabelle paused for a moment. "He had a great sympathy for the Irish, for their liberation, and we became connected to some people who were ... tres en colere, very angry. We found ourselves in over our heads, and your James … " Ruth started and looked up. Isabelle smiled sadly at her, pausing and saying the word deliberately, "Yes, Sophie, your James. He helped us. He saved us, truly. I will never forget him. He said he saw the good in us … erm, how can I say … que nous avions un ideal certes, mais que nous n'étions pas comme eux."
Ruth thought a moment, and then translated for her. "Yes, that you were idealistic, but not like them, not angry."
Isabelle nodded, "Exactly. He kept us from prison."
Ruth was silent, primarily because she didn't trust herself to speak. She poured out the tea, and then busied herself with a bite of cake while she gained composure. Finally, her emotions checked, Ruth said, simply, "He's a good man."
Isabelle held Ruth's eyes with hers. "He is the best kind of man." She took a sip of tea and looked at Ruth over the cup. "My dear, I do not know why you are separated, but I know that neither of you wants it to be so, and I must conclude that you are swept up in something, erm … out of control."
Ruth's eyes began to mist, and her urge was to move over to Isabelle and put her head in her lap for a proper cry. But she found her reserve of steel, and blinked the tears back. Instead, she put her cup down and took Isabelle's hands, with their light tracing of blue veins, in hers. "Isabelle, I wish I could ..."
Isabelle squeezed Ruth's hands and shook her head, pursing her lips, "Shh, no. I understand secrecy, Sophie. It can mean safety. I want nothing to happen to you. I care for you already, and I am in debt to James. I know all I need to know of you."
Patting her hands, Isabelle smiled. "True love cannot be held down, my dear. It will rise up and be heard." Isabelle reached over again for her cup and leant back in the damask chair. She had a distant look in her eyes, and seemed to be focused on something invisible, just above Ruth's head. "Pierre and I were separated for nearly a year during that time. Seven smuggled notes, two stolen passionate meetings. But we never wanted another person, and always knew it would be over one day. That we would be together."
Ruth realised she wasn't breathing, and suddenly her lungs filled of their own accord and she sighed. What she had just remembered was something she'd heard once, Every person you meet has a story that can break your heart. Ruth was filled with compassion for Isabelle and her Pierre, and she was also aware of how lucky she was. Eighteen days, and already a letter. Nearly a year. She could hardly bring herself to think about it.
She wanted so much to be honest with Isabelle, but it would be too dangerous for both of them. And, in truth, she realised that specifics weren't really necessary. What they were talking about was universal, the broad concept of two people who loved each other deeply, moving through obstacles. Ruth smiled at her new friend, and said softly, "You're helping me very much, Isabelle. Thank you."
Isabelle smiled. "For that I am glad." They had a moment of silence as each sipped at her tea. Then Isabelle narrowed her eyes and looked warily at the computer. "And I have decided that I must understand that ... machine, so I must ask for your help, as well." She put her cup down and stood up, taking a deep breath. "You will be swept off your feet and carried away from me someday, and I will be left alone with this ... " Isabelle walked over and sat down in the wooden chair.
Ruth laughed and raised her eyebrows. "That's very brave, Isabelle." She moved behind the chair and put her hands on the older woman's shoulders. Leaning down to whisper to her, she said, "You might find you like it."
Isabelle put a hand over Ruth's on her shoulder. "Well, my dear, the one thing I've learned in life is that anything is possible, no matter how impossible it looks to be. Will you teach me?" She looked up at Ruth and smiled.
Ruth pulled up a chair and said, "It would be my pleasure."
Harry wondered if anyone had noticed. His computer screen, for as long as anyone could remember, had been turned to face the door. It was always visible as a blue glow from the Grid, no matter what he was working on. But now it was turned, just slightly, as Harry typed, and anyone looking in could only see his head, from the eyes up, above the back of the screen. Harry was deep in thought and typing at the keyboard, not just a keystroke here or there to pull up a report, but typing, and composing something fairly long. Not unheard of, but definitely unusual.
If they had been extraordinarily observant, they would have seen just the whisper of a smile as he read it over from the screen, as if he shared a small, secret joke with the recipient. And if they looked closely at his eyes, they would have seen a softness there that had been missing for twenty-two days.
If they could actually read what he had written, they would have to conclude that Harry Pearce had acquired a pen pal. A woman, in Paris, and something to do with books. They might wonder who Mr. Wingate was, and who the Parisian woman was, but it's likely they wouldn't assume Harry was writing to someone they believed they had buried only a little less than three weeks ago.
Two of the three on the Grid who would even know that was a possibility were Adam and Zaf. And the only one who would know for sure was Malcolm.
Dear Mlle. Persan,
My good friend Mr. Wingate has done me the great favour of giving me your email address, so I hope you won't mind if I write directly to you. Your recent note to him suggests you may be open to a correspondence of ideas rather than one that concerns simply the procurement of books.
As it happens, I have some time on my hands these days, more than is usual, and a recent loss has opened me up to thoughts and feelings that seem to want expression. As you are in new circumstances there in Paris, you may not be up to the full measure of those thoughts. I have no desire to depress a newly-made friend, or to make your life more difficult as a result of listening to my woes, so please let me know if that is not your intention. If you desire that this correspondence stay on a strictly literary level, I will honour your wishes, and simply be content to check in now and again. You will set the tone by the type of letter you send back to me, and I will follow your lead.
Whatever you decide, I agree that it is very good indeed to know that another shares my feelings, and that this avenue is open. That's enough for now.
And as for your being a mule? Please remember it's only an expression. Perhaps the one who called you that was a bit fixated at the time.
Faithfully yours,
Mr. William Arden
Harry read the letter again. He wanted to be sure he let her know that she was the one setting the rules for this correspondence. He couldn't tell how strong she was, and he didn't want to make this any harder on her. If writing about books would ease the pain in her heart, he would write about books. Christ, I'll write about the bloody weather so long as I can write to Ruth about it.
He transferred the file to the memory stick to give to Malcolm, and then erased it from his hard drive. He'd managed to wait four days before replying, but it had taken a significant amount of willpower. Harry wanted to write to her every day, all day. He was hungry for her, but the more they wrote, the higher the risk. This needed to be a tentative, slightly hesitant relationship between Mr. Arden and Mlle. Persan. Self-control, Harry.
Walking back from Malcolm's station, Harry thought about his meeting today with David Newman, Bishop of Whitechapel. Newman, a man for whom Harry had the utmost respect, senior clergyman, friend of the Prime Minister, giving the order to assassinate Khalid Mansoor. What had David said? "I just wanted to defend my country." To which Harry had replied, "That's my job, and I'm better at it."
Harry stepped back in to his office and sat down. Putting his hands behind his head, he leant back and surveyed the Grid. He wanted to talk to her, to watch the folds in her forehead, find out what she thought about all this. Bishop Newman was someone that Harry thought of as inherently good, and his treachery made Harry feel that he was no longer surprised by mankind, as if anyone could now turn and embrace the darkness. What would Ruth say? He wanted to know.
He hoped she would write back and tell William Arden that he was free to open his heart to her, that no philosophical question was out of bounds, no exploration of the twin extremes of good and evil was forbidden. Harry hoped she felt strong enough, because he needed her. His external conscience, his bellwether, his Ruth.
David Newman had crossed the line, but instead of condemning him, Harry had sent him off to Africa to do missionary work, saying it would be a waste of his passion to lock him away. Harry thought Ruth would have liked that. Actually, he thought that was what she would have done.
~~~~~
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