One other gaudy night
I didn't want to do this, but the itch had to be scratched. A longer version of The Other Way Round. Complete with lots of cut-and-paste from canon and gratuitous hurt/comfort. And backstory. That part was fun.
Harriet Vane looked out over Mecklenburgh Square. She did not see the crater, covered now with daisies, or the ragged gap in the houses on the other side.[1] Instead she saw the Cherwell, on a sunny May afternoon long ago. There were green willows glowing in the honey-coloured light, ducks quacking, and a gramophone playing "Love in Bloom."
She held in her hands a letter, of a kind impossible to ignore. It was from Peter Wimsey. Peter Wimsey, back from the dead. Peter, to whom Harriet owed so much. He was recently returned to England after a long absence, and he asked diffidently if she would do him the favor of reassuring him that all was well with her?
If Peter were diffident, it was only natural. After a tempestuous five years of pursuing Harriet, he had finally accepted her answer; No, she would not marry him. Since then, she had not heard from him. From time to time, she had been tempted to write - to send him the novel she had dedicated to him, or to express her gratitude to him for encouraging her to write what she needed to write. But she appreciated the fact that he had respected her answer, and she did not want to pain him further by reminding him of what he had once wanted and could not have.
In time, Harriet met another man whom she thought she could love. A friend introduced her to an up-and-coming young barrister. John made her laugh, and forget the past, and they were engaged. But when it came down to it, Harriet found that she could not bring herself to marry a man with clumsy hands. Although she had refused him for fear of being swallowed up by him, Peter Wimsey had spoiled her for other men.
And so she had dedicated herself to her work, and had come to realize that she was happy to be alone in the world, an observer, detached, rather than a participant. As the years passed, fewer and fewer people cared about or even remembered the stigma that had once attached to her name. Her work enjoyed both critical and commercial success. Even the war, with its shortage of paper, had not much affected her career. For with desperate shortages of everything, there was also a desperate need for escape, and the novels of Miss Harriet Vane provided this to a hungry public.
Then came the shock of Peter's death. She had stood in the back at his memorial service and shed tears, for him, and for the road not traveled, knowing that her choice had been the right one, but at the same time mourning for what might have been.
In the aftermath, Harriet struck up an unlikely correspondence with Peter's mother. She had written to the Dowager Duchess, explaining that she was an old friend of her son's, and deeply distressed to learn of his passing. Quite unexpectedly, Peter's mother had replied kindly that of course she knew who Harriet was, and that it was a great comfort to her to know that he was remembered warmly. Over the years, Harriet had sent her a note every August on the anniversary of the Dieppe Raid.[2] So it was that the previous Christmas, the Dowager Duchess had written to Harriet that an escaped POW had reported that Peter was alive, in a camp for officers in Southwest Germany.[3] The camp had recently been liberated by the Americans, and he had been back in England for some weeks, but was only now at liberty to write to her.
Harriet wrote quickly without stopping to think too much.
Dear Peter,
Many thanks for your kind inquiry. I am quite well, and I hope this finds you well too. I understand from your Mother that you are currently with her in Duke's Denver. But if you should find occasion to come up to Town, I would be delighted to see you again.
Yours,
Harriet D Vane
Some days later, Harriet waited for Wimsey at the Savoy. As she scanned the lunchtime crowd, she wondered whether she would recognize him. Harriet had been in prison herself; it had changed her, but not in a way that was visible to the naked eye. On the other hand, recent news reports of camps in Germany told of unspeakable horrors, and she did not know whether the man who had returned would bear any physical resemblance to the man she once knew. Even more uncertain was whether the feelings he once had for her would have stood the test of time and circumstance.
As it happened, she need not have worried. She picked him out at once as he entered, the familiar beaked nose, and long jaw unmistakeable. But he looked around with an uncharacteristic vagueness, very different from the air of ownership she remembered, and her heart unexpectedly turned over.
The waiter showed him to her table, and she saw that he was gaunt and aged beyond his years, his face deeply marked by lines. The hands were the same, though, those long sensitive hands which haunted her dreams. He took her fingers in a firm grasp, and brought them to his lips. She knew in that instant how this meeting would end, kissing passionately in a taxi on the way to her flat, those vital hands on her body, with this broken man in her bed.
"Oh, Peter!" she said, looking into his eyes, so he could see how the tears stood in her own.
"I'm not dead yet," he replied, as his face unexpectedly crinkled with the familiar grin. He held her chair for her before seating himself. "Though no thanks to Herr Hitler."
"I don't know what to say, except I'm glad."
"Mater sends her regards, and she thanks you for the latest book."
"Your mother is a delight, Peter, I don't know why you never introduced us."
His face was pure mischief.
"I read the book, Harriet. It was a flattering portrait. But it made me glad that you decided not to marry me. I'm not sure my ego could stand being put in a book by my wife."
It was true. The character of Neville was based on him, if in a way only the two of them would recognize. But he had been dead when she wrote it, and the dead can't complain.
"I'm sorry, Peter."
He cocked his head on one side.
"And, really, Harriet, Neville? No matter. I think I should pretend to be dead more often. I did it once before, you know. It was vastly entertaining finding out what people really thought of me."
She shook her head, surprised that after all that had happened, he could piffle on as well as ever. But though he kept the subject matter resolutely light, she sensed the underlying brittleness to his manner.
Meanwhile, Wimsey sat wondering whether he had made a mistake in coming to see her. It was not that all his desire was awakened as strongly as ever. That he could keep under control, the old iron reflexes kicking in again smoothly to tamp down his feelings and hide them under a torrent of meaningless banter. No, it was the fact that in his relief to find her flourishing, and normal life going on as usual, it was all that he could do to stop himself from collapsing on her shoulder and weeping.
After Harriet's refusal, he had thrown himself into his work for the Foreign Office, and found a surprising peace in devoting all his energies to less egotistical ends. He had observed her from afar through her novels, feeling at first a puff of pride for the role he had played in encouraging her to challenge herself more in her writing, but later respect and awe for an achievement that demonstrated that even he had underestimated her. If he were to be honest with himself, he had to recognize that she had chosen well in walking away from him.
In his last days in England before leaving for France, and almost certain death, he had flirted with the idea of leaving a letter for her in his will. But he had recognized that it would be intolerable of him to so disturb her peace, even posthumously. He contented himself instead with leaving a few keepsakes for the spectacular Leonie, who had cheered him in Vienna before meeting Harriet, and in New York again after Harriet had said goodbye.
He had returned to find that while he had been dead, she had written to his mother, and that gave him reason to hope. Her manner today was even more encouraging. But he was a broken man now, and had nothing to offer her. So yes, it had been wrong of him to meet with her.
He glanced around and noticed that the waiters were clearing the lunch tables and starting to lay places for dinner. The conversation had flowed easily, and he had not noticed time passing.
"I do apologize, my dear girl, for maundering on. It has been exceedingly good of you to be bothered with me like this. I shall stop making a nuisance of myself and go."
"Don't be ridiculous, Peter" she replied. "After all these years, you owe me more than that."
She put her hand over his, and he knew then for certain what she meant to do. He hoped she was not doing it out of obligation or pity, but at that moment, he did not care.
They rose to leave. Peter helped her into her coat, and held the door on the way out. They stood on the pavement looking uncertainly at one another.
"Should you like to come home and have some tea?" she asked, lamely.
"Why, I should like that very much indeed," he replied.
***
Afterwards, he slept in her bed in the slanting afternoon light, and she watched the rise and fall of his chest, the ribs visible, the shoulder-blades sharp and prominent. She remembered the last time she had watched him sleep, all those years ago on the river, and the sudden rush of protective instinct. This was a different man. Older. Tireder. Fragile. She touched his face gently, and he shifted in his sleep, but did not wake.
It was early evening when finally he stirred. In the meantime, Harriet had dressed, and sat beside him reading a novel she was supposed to review. She looked up and found that his eyes were open, observing her. She smiled at him. He rolled over onto his back and groaned, covering his eyes with his arm.
"Are you ill?" she asked, suddenly alarmed. Perhaps the exertion had been too much for him in his weakened state.
"No, no, no!" he said, and sat up, indignant. "I'm not as decrepit as I may look. On the contrary, it was delightful. You were delightful. But it's just..... "
He paused, and she looked at him expectantly.
"I promised myself after Oxford that I would leave you alone, and... and... "
"Yes?"
He looked sheepish.
"And I'm afraid I didn't put on such a great show." With a wave of his arm, he indicated the bed. "I always wanted everything to be perfect for you - with you."
That made her chuckle.
"Don't be such an egotist, Peter. You weren't doing all the work."
He made a wry mouth at that. He then swung his legs to the floor, and looked around for his clothes.
"What's the hurry? Is your mother expecting you?"
"No."
"And Bunter?"
That brought him up short, and he paused before replying.
"I cut Bunter loose, back before I left for Dieppe. I couldn't leave him hanging on in case I didn't return. He got his pension , and he's running a pub in __shire with his brother. I saw him a few days ago. He's happy. Settled. I mentioned I would see you again, and he sends his regards."
She reached out to him, and put her hand on his arm.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Peter."
He sighed, and then continued reluctantly, as if despite himself.
"Harriet. I'm more messed up than you can know. I've been to hell and back twice in my lifetime. I can't in good conscience inflict myself on anyone, least of all anyone I care about the way I care about you."
"I can remember saying something similar to you," she said gently.
His unfocused eyes looked out and saw the past, not the present.
"... I suppose I've never been really right since the War. Can't stand responsibility. Rotten nerves. Nightmares. That sort of thing..."
"I thought it might be rather like that," said Harriet.
"Yes." he continued. "And then they sent me to Dieppe. Or, God forgive me, I volunteered. I should have died rather than being captured, and having been captured, I couldn't let the Germans know who I was. They didn't treat officers badly. But I spent two-and-a-half years trying not to sleep, so my dreams wouldn't give me away."
"That sounds perfectly foul."
"I'm sorry, Harriet the last thing I should be doing is burdening you with this."
"For God's sake, Peter, if you and I are to mean anything to one another, we have to be honest with each other. And besides, at one time, I didn't hesitate to burden you with all my demons."
He bowed his head.
"I'm sorry. I'd forgotten. That sounds terrible. And what the devil am I doing, to remind you of that horror."
"If it hadn't been for that, we shouldn't be here."
He turned back to her and smiled.
"When I came back, and learned that you had written to my mother... I thought there was a chance you might care to begin again. So I was not wrong?"
"No, you were not wrong. But you might come here and show me again how you mean to go about it."
***
The next day they listened together to Mr Churchill announce the end of the war, legs entangled in the sheets, smoking cigarettes.
[1] Including Virginia Woolf's house.
[2] Maybe Ian Fleming sends him on the Dieppe Raid to steal part of an Enigma machine. And then he doesn't have time to take the cyanide pill before being captured by the Germans, and he's afraid they'll find out about Ultra. Though that's rather piling on the angst, and I can't imagine him being much use to poor Harriet afterwards.
[3] I wanted him to be held in Oflag IIV B in Eichstatt, Bavaria, with the Canadians from the Dieppe Raid but the timing of the camp liberation would be wrong. So for the purpose of the fic it's some mythical officers' camp West of the Rhine, liberated by the Americans in February 1945.
And now with fluffy sequel.
Harriet Vane looked out over Mecklenburgh Square. She did not see the crater, covered now with daisies, or the ragged gap in the houses on the other side.[1] Instead she saw the Cherwell, on a sunny May afternoon long ago. There were green willows glowing in the honey-coloured light, ducks quacking, and a gramophone playing "Love in Bloom."
She held in her hands a letter, of a kind impossible to ignore. It was from Peter Wimsey. Peter Wimsey, back from the dead. Peter, to whom Harriet owed so much. He was recently returned to England after a long absence, and he asked diffidently if she would do him the favor of reassuring him that all was well with her?
If Peter were diffident, it was only natural. After a tempestuous five years of pursuing Harriet, he had finally accepted her answer; No, she would not marry him. Since then, she had not heard from him. From time to time, she had been tempted to write - to send him the novel she had dedicated to him, or to express her gratitude to him for encouraging her to write what she needed to write. But she appreciated the fact that he had respected her answer, and she did not want to pain him further by reminding him of what he had once wanted and could not have.
In time, Harriet met another man whom she thought she could love. A friend introduced her to an up-and-coming young barrister. John made her laugh, and forget the past, and they were engaged. But when it came down to it, Harriet found that she could not bring herself to marry a man with clumsy hands. Although she had refused him for fear of being swallowed up by him, Peter Wimsey had spoiled her for other men.
And so she had dedicated herself to her work, and had come to realize that she was happy to be alone in the world, an observer, detached, rather than a participant. As the years passed, fewer and fewer people cared about or even remembered the stigma that had once attached to her name. Her work enjoyed both critical and commercial success. Even the war, with its shortage of paper, had not much affected her career. For with desperate shortages of everything, there was also a desperate need for escape, and the novels of Miss Harriet Vane provided this to a hungry public.
Then came the shock of Peter's death. She had stood in the back at his memorial service and shed tears, for him, and for the road not traveled, knowing that her choice had been the right one, but at the same time mourning for what might have been.
In the aftermath, Harriet struck up an unlikely correspondence with Peter's mother. She had written to the Dowager Duchess, explaining that she was an old friend of her son's, and deeply distressed to learn of his passing. Quite unexpectedly, Peter's mother had replied kindly that of course she knew who Harriet was, and that it was a great comfort to her to know that he was remembered warmly. Over the years, Harriet had sent her a note every August on the anniversary of the Dieppe Raid.[2] So it was that the previous Christmas, the Dowager Duchess had written to Harriet that an escaped POW had reported that Peter was alive, in a camp for officers in Southwest Germany.[3] The camp had recently been liberated by the Americans, and he had been back in England for some weeks, but was only now at liberty to write to her.
Harriet wrote quickly without stopping to think too much.
Dear Peter,
Many thanks for your kind inquiry. I am quite well, and I hope this finds you well too. I understand from your Mother that you are currently with her in Duke's Denver. But if you should find occasion to come up to Town, I would be delighted to see you again.
Yours,
Harriet D Vane
Some days later, Harriet waited for Wimsey at the Savoy. As she scanned the lunchtime crowd, she wondered whether she would recognize him. Harriet had been in prison herself; it had changed her, but not in a way that was visible to the naked eye. On the other hand, recent news reports of camps in Germany told of unspeakable horrors, and she did not know whether the man who had returned would bear any physical resemblance to the man she once knew. Even more uncertain was whether the feelings he once had for her would have stood the test of time and circumstance.
As it happened, she need not have worried. She picked him out at once as he entered, the familiar beaked nose, and long jaw unmistakeable. But he looked around with an uncharacteristic vagueness, very different from the air of ownership she remembered, and her heart unexpectedly turned over.
The waiter showed him to her table, and she saw that he was gaunt and aged beyond his years, his face deeply marked by lines. The hands were the same, though, those long sensitive hands which haunted her dreams. He took her fingers in a firm grasp, and brought them to his lips. She knew in that instant how this meeting would end, kissing passionately in a taxi on the way to her flat, those vital hands on her body, with this broken man in her bed.
"Oh, Peter!" she said, looking into his eyes, so he could see how the tears stood in her own.
"I'm not dead yet," he replied, as his face unexpectedly crinkled with the familiar grin. He held her chair for her before seating himself. "Though no thanks to Herr Hitler."
"I don't know what to say, except I'm glad."
"Mater sends her regards, and she thanks you for the latest book."
"Your mother is a delight, Peter, I don't know why you never introduced us."
His face was pure mischief.
"I read the book, Harriet. It was a flattering portrait. But it made me glad that you decided not to marry me. I'm not sure my ego could stand being put in a book by my wife."
It was true. The character of Neville was based on him, if in a way only the two of them would recognize. But he had been dead when she wrote it, and the dead can't complain.
"I'm sorry, Peter."
He cocked his head on one side.
"And, really, Harriet, Neville? No matter. I think I should pretend to be dead more often. I did it once before, you know. It was vastly entertaining finding out what people really thought of me."
She shook her head, surprised that after all that had happened, he could piffle on as well as ever. But though he kept the subject matter resolutely light, she sensed the underlying brittleness to his manner.
Meanwhile, Wimsey sat wondering whether he had made a mistake in coming to see her. It was not that all his desire was awakened as strongly as ever. That he could keep under control, the old iron reflexes kicking in again smoothly to tamp down his feelings and hide them under a torrent of meaningless banter. No, it was the fact that in his relief to find her flourishing, and normal life going on as usual, it was all that he could do to stop himself from collapsing on her shoulder and weeping.
After Harriet's refusal, he had thrown himself into his work for the Foreign Office, and found a surprising peace in devoting all his energies to less egotistical ends. He had observed her from afar through her novels, feeling at first a puff of pride for the role he had played in encouraging her to challenge herself more in her writing, but later respect and awe for an achievement that demonstrated that even he had underestimated her. If he were to be honest with himself, he had to recognize that she had chosen well in walking away from him.
In his last days in England before leaving for France, and almost certain death, he had flirted with the idea of leaving a letter for her in his will. But he had recognized that it would be intolerable of him to so disturb her peace, even posthumously. He contented himself instead with leaving a few keepsakes for the spectacular Leonie, who had cheered him in Vienna before meeting Harriet, and in New York again after Harriet had said goodbye.
He had returned to find that while he had been dead, she had written to his mother, and that gave him reason to hope. Her manner today was even more encouraging. But he was a broken man now, and had nothing to offer her. So yes, it had been wrong of him to meet with her.
He glanced around and noticed that the waiters were clearing the lunch tables and starting to lay places for dinner. The conversation had flowed easily, and he had not noticed time passing.
"I do apologize, my dear girl, for maundering on. It has been exceedingly good of you to be bothered with me like this. I shall stop making a nuisance of myself and go."
"Don't be ridiculous, Peter" she replied. "After all these years, you owe me more than that."
She put her hand over his, and he knew then for certain what she meant to do. He hoped she was not doing it out of obligation or pity, but at that moment, he did not care.
They rose to leave. Peter helped her into her coat, and held the door on the way out. They stood on the pavement looking uncertainly at one another.
"Should you like to come home and have some tea?" she asked, lamely.
"Why, I should like that very much indeed," he replied.
***
Afterwards, he slept in her bed in the slanting afternoon light, and she watched the rise and fall of his chest, the ribs visible, the shoulder-blades sharp and prominent. She remembered the last time she had watched him sleep, all those years ago on the river, and the sudden rush of protective instinct. This was a different man. Older. Tireder. Fragile. She touched his face gently, and he shifted in his sleep, but did not wake.
It was early evening when finally he stirred. In the meantime, Harriet had dressed, and sat beside him reading a novel she was supposed to review. She looked up and found that his eyes were open, observing her. She smiled at him. He rolled over onto his back and groaned, covering his eyes with his arm.
"Are you ill?" she asked, suddenly alarmed. Perhaps the exertion had been too much for him in his weakened state.
"No, no, no!" he said, and sat up, indignant. "I'm not as decrepit as I may look. On the contrary, it was delightful. You were delightful. But it's just..... "
He paused, and she looked at him expectantly.
"I promised myself after Oxford that I would leave you alone, and... and... "
"Yes?"
He looked sheepish.
"And I'm afraid I didn't put on such a great show." With a wave of his arm, he indicated the bed. "I always wanted everything to be perfect for you - with you."
That made her chuckle.
"Don't be such an egotist, Peter. You weren't doing all the work."
He made a wry mouth at that. He then swung his legs to the floor, and looked around for his clothes.
"What's the hurry? Is your mother expecting you?"
"No."
"And Bunter?"
That brought him up short, and he paused before replying.
"I cut Bunter loose, back before I left for Dieppe. I couldn't leave him hanging on in case I didn't return. He got his pension , and he's running a pub in __shire with his brother. I saw him a few days ago. He's happy. Settled. I mentioned I would see you again, and he sends his regards."
She reached out to him, and put her hand on his arm.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Peter."
He sighed, and then continued reluctantly, as if despite himself.
"Harriet. I'm more messed up than you can know. I've been to hell and back twice in my lifetime. I can't in good conscience inflict myself on anyone, least of all anyone I care about the way I care about you."
"I can remember saying something similar to you," she said gently.
His unfocused eyes looked out and saw the past, not the present.
"... I suppose I've never been really right since the War. Can't stand responsibility. Rotten nerves. Nightmares. That sort of thing..."
"I thought it might be rather like that," said Harriet.
"Yes." he continued. "And then they sent me to Dieppe. Or, God forgive me, I volunteered. I should have died rather than being captured, and having been captured, I couldn't let the Germans know who I was. They didn't treat officers badly. But I spent two-and-a-half years trying not to sleep, so my dreams wouldn't give me away."
"That sounds perfectly foul."
"I'm sorry, Harriet the last thing I should be doing is burdening you with this."
"For God's sake, Peter, if you and I are to mean anything to one another, we have to be honest with each other. And besides, at one time, I didn't hesitate to burden you with all my demons."
He bowed his head.
"I'm sorry. I'd forgotten. That sounds terrible. And what the devil am I doing, to remind you of that horror."
"If it hadn't been for that, we shouldn't be here."
He turned back to her and smiled.
"When I came back, and learned that you had written to my mother... I thought there was a chance you might care to begin again. So I was not wrong?"
"No, you were not wrong. But you might come here and show me again how you mean to go about it."
***
The next day they listened together to Mr Churchill announce the end of the war, legs entangled in the sheets, smoking cigarettes.
[1] Including Virginia Woolf's house.
[2] Maybe Ian Fleming sends him on the Dieppe Raid to steal part of an Enigma machine. And then he doesn't have time to take the cyanide pill before being captured by the Germans, and he's afraid they'll find out about Ultra. Though that's rather piling on the angst, and I can't imagine him being much use to poor Harriet afterwards.
[3] I wanted him to be held in Oflag IIV B in Eichstatt, Bavaria, with the Canadians from the Dieppe Raid but the timing of the camp liberation would be wrong. So for the purpose of the fic it's some mythical officers' camp West of the Rhine, liberated by the Americans in February 1945.
And now with fluffy sequel.