(no subject)
* This was inspired by a friend who said that one of the things she really liked about Gaudy Night was that she felt that it could have gone either way - it would have been equally plausible if Harriet had said "no" at the end. So I thought to string a few cliches together and think about what if things had gone the other way, borrowing along the way from antisoppist's "They came, you know, and told me you were dead."
"Harriet, you know that I love you. Will you marry me?"
"I'm sorry, Peter, but I can't see my way to it"
And there was an end to it. Ever the gentleman, he walked her back to the postern gate, gently kissed her hand, and was gone into the night.
Harriet did not sleep well for many nights after. But as the weeks went by, and she moved back to London, and the chapters accumulated on her desk, she found that she thought about him less and less.
Half a year later, as she held a crisp new copy of "Death Twixt Wind and Water," Harriet wondered whether she should send him a copy. The dedication read "To Peter, who made Wilfrid who he is." But perhaps it was better not. She had not heard from him, or of him since that night in Oxford. And in the meantime, her writer friend's barrister husband had introduced her to a young barrister named John who made her laugh and forget the past.
Wimsey finished "Death Twixt Wind and Water" at 4am in a hotel room in Paris two days after Hitler marched on the Rhineland. He had canceled the cuttings service the previous May, and after throwing himself without reservation into his work for the Foreign Office, he had missed the publication of Harriet's book by several months. By God, but this was her best book yet. He turned back yet again to the dedication. She had kept her word. With a strange ache in his heart, he allowed himself to wonder whether she would have written such a book had they married.
Harriet listened with her writer friend to Mr Chamberlain's address announcing war with Germany. The friend, heavily pregnant, lamented the bleak future facing her child. Harriet, cynically, wondered what kind of blinkers could her friend have been wearing not to have seen this coming when the child was conceived. Though perhaps that was overly harsh. In the past year and a half, since breaking off her engagement with John, she had felt pangs of regret for the children that it seemed she would not now bear. John had been shocked and distraught, but when it came down to it, she could not bring herself to marry a man with such clumsy hands.
Before leaving for the Low Countries, Peter contemplated for a moment leaving a letter for Harriet in his will. That was something the man of 1930 might have done, not the man of 1942. At that moment he was glad they were not married; for how could he have said goodbye, knowing what he was about to do? However he did leave some keepsakes for Leonie. They had met again in New York after the Anschluss. Though 10 years had passed since he had seen her, she had been as spectacular as ever, and he smiled again at the memory.
Harriet passed the war in London, acting as fire warden for her building, and wearing trousers every day. Although there was a desperate shortage of paper in the war, there was also a desperate need for escape, and the novels of Miss Harriet Vane experienced both critical and commercial success.
Harriet almost missed the few lines in the Times: Peter Death Bredon Wimsey, Missing in Action, Believed Dead. They were like a blow to the gut. She wrote to Peter's mother, not really knowing why, explaining that she was an old friend of her son's, and deeply distressed to hear of his passing. Thus began an unlikely correspondence.
So it was, that in late 1944, Peter's mother wrote to her that there was news from an escaped POW. Peter was alive, in a camp for Allied POWs in Southern Germany.
They met in London some weeks before the Fall of Berlin. He had been back in England for some time, but had been held for debriefing in some secret location. He had written asking to see her again, and she could not refuse. What could she say, to him, whom she had rejected, and who had spent years in a foreign prison camp? That she had spent the war writing books, and would not see him?
He was gaunt and aged beyond his years, his face deeply marked by lines. The hands were the same, though. He held hers in a firm grasp, brought them to his lips, and kissed them. And she knew then how it would end, kissing passionately in a taxi on the way to her flat, those vital hands on her body, and a broken man in her bed. They listened to Mr Churchill announce the end of the war in Europe together, legs entangled in the sheets, smoking cigarettes.
Now with an expanded version.
"Harriet, you know that I love you. Will you marry me?"
"I'm sorry, Peter, but I can't see my way to it"
And there was an end to it. Ever the gentleman, he walked her back to the postern gate, gently kissed her hand, and was gone into the night.
Harriet did not sleep well for many nights after. But as the weeks went by, and she moved back to London, and the chapters accumulated on her desk, she found that she thought about him less and less.
Half a year later, as she held a crisp new copy of "Death Twixt Wind and Water," Harriet wondered whether she should send him a copy. The dedication read "To Peter, who made Wilfrid who he is." But perhaps it was better not. She had not heard from him, or of him since that night in Oxford. And in the meantime, her writer friend's barrister husband had introduced her to a young barrister named John who made her laugh and forget the past.
Wimsey finished "Death Twixt Wind and Water" at 4am in a hotel room in Paris two days after Hitler marched on the Rhineland. He had canceled the cuttings service the previous May, and after throwing himself without reservation into his work for the Foreign Office, he had missed the publication of Harriet's book by several months. By God, but this was her best book yet. He turned back yet again to the dedication. She had kept her word. With a strange ache in his heart, he allowed himself to wonder whether she would have written such a book had they married.
Harriet listened with her writer friend to Mr Chamberlain's address announcing war with Germany. The friend, heavily pregnant, lamented the bleak future facing her child. Harriet, cynically, wondered what kind of blinkers could her friend have been wearing not to have seen this coming when the child was conceived. Though perhaps that was overly harsh. In the past year and a half, since breaking off her engagement with John, she had felt pangs of regret for the children that it seemed she would not now bear. John had been shocked and distraught, but when it came down to it, she could not bring herself to marry a man with such clumsy hands.
Before leaving for the Low Countries, Peter contemplated for a moment leaving a letter for Harriet in his will. That was something the man of 1930 might have done, not the man of 1942. At that moment he was glad they were not married; for how could he have said goodbye, knowing what he was about to do? However he did leave some keepsakes for Leonie. They had met again in New York after the Anschluss. Though 10 years had passed since he had seen her, she had been as spectacular as ever, and he smiled again at the memory.
Harriet passed the war in London, acting as fire warden for her building, and wearing trousers every day. Although there was a desperate shortage of paper in the war, there was also a desperate need for escape, and the novels of Miss Harriet Vane experienced both critical and commercial success.
Harriet almost missed the few lines in the Times: Peter Death Bredon Wimsey, Missing in Action, Believed Dead. They were like a blow to the gut. She wrote to Peter's mother, not really knowing why, explaining that she was an old friend of her son's, and deeply distressed to hear of his passing. Thus began an unlikely correspondence.
So it was, that in late 1944, Peter's mother wrote to her that there was news from an escaped POW. Peter was alive, in a camp for Allied POWs in Southern Germany.
They met in London some weeks before the Fall of Berlin. He had been back in England for some time, but had been held for debriefing in some secret location. He had written asking to see her again, and she could not refuse. What could she say, to him, whom she had rejected, and who had spent years in a foreign prison camp? That she had spent the war writing books, and would not see him?
He was gaunt and aged beyond his years, his face deeply marked by lines. The hands were the same, though. He held hers in a firm grasp, brought them to his lips, and kissed them. And she knew then how it would end, kissing passionately in a taxi on the way to her flat, those vital hands on her body, and a broken man in her bed. They listened to Mr Churchill announce the end of the war in Europe together, legs entangled in the sheets, smoking cigarettes.
Now with an expanded version.