London, August 1942
More Wimseyfic, same AU as The Other Way Round, this time a prequel.
In which Lord Peter makes a will.
Lord Peter Wimsey arranged the final set of papers neatly in a manila folder, and placed them in the suitcase on the floor beside him. Murbles had sent a copy of his latest will to join the deeds of ownership related to the estate in a fire-proof box in a warehouse north of London. But one never knew. Tomorrow he would take the suitcase down to Duke's Denver on his last visit before leaving for France.
Wimsey was seated at the desk in his library overlooking Green Park, shirtsleeves rolled up and collar open in the heat of August. The room, formerly one of the most elegant bachelor rooms in London, was showing the effects of time and war. The bookshelves stood empty, the priceless volumes having been removed for safekeeping in the countryside at the first hint of bombardment. The sofas and easy chairs were covered with dust sheets. Only the baby grand piano remained as it had always been, the difficulty of finding piano movers during the Blitz having defeated even the indefatigable Bunter.
He was at this time in his early fifties, but if it had not been for the reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, Wimsey would easily have passed for a man ten years younger. His figure was as lean and spare as it had always been (perhaps aided somewhat by the clean living enforced by both wartime service and general rationing). His hair had receded at the temples and was fading to silver. But rather than aging him, this gave him an air of restrained dignity in striking contrast to his formerly silly-ass-about-town persona.
This latest will had been the cause of some mental agony. With his mother in her late seventies, and knowing that he was unlikely to return from this mission, Lord Peter had concluded that it would be best to leave the bulk of the real property to his nephew (and heir to the dukedom) and great-nephews. Of course, he had set aside a very generous annuity for Bunter, and something for his sister's children, along with bequests to various charities. But Lord Peter had reverted to type, and even with the world as he knew it collapsing around his ears, a gentleman knew what was due to the family.
No, the agony was not in deciding to leave the money to his nephew and heirs, it was in setting up a trust in such a way as to cover all the possible contingencies that arose when one's nephew was an RAF pilot whose rackety exploits on the ground matched the peril he faced in the air, his wife of 18 months standing a scatter-brained socialite, and the great-nephews in question aged but 13 months and 6 weeks. Lord Peter knew his brother worried about leaving the title in those hands. But though the circumstances were not ideal, he was himself grateful that the burden of the succession no longer lay with him, giving him a freedom to risk his own life in the service of his country.
That accounted for the business aspects of his leave-taking. With an expression of distaste, he squared his shoulders to deal with the disposal of the trinkets on the desk in front of him. In a small box lay the ruby (no trinket, that) which he had once hoped to place on the finger of the woman who even yet held his heart. That dream had been relinquished long ago, and in the intervening years he had achieved a measure of peace in devoting his energies to less egotistical ends than pursuing her. But now, on the verge of almost certain death, he toyed with the stone.
He had not seen Harriet since they parted. Professionally, he could not help but know that she had gone from strength to strength. She was simultaneously a bestselling author of escapist fiction, the first choice of reading matter in public air-raid shelters, and the toast of literary London. As to her personal life, he had no idea, and had made some effort not to know. He had long ago burned his collection of press cuttings, and the only keepsakes that remained were the few letters she had written to him in the last months of their acquaintance, a first edition of Death Twixt Wind and Water, and the ruby. He was briefly tempted to leave a letter for her, enclosing with it the stone. But the words congealed on the paper. He could find no way to express himself that was neither pathetic nor insulting.
Instead, he tossed the crumpled sheet of paper in the wastepaper basket, and started afresh. "My dear Leonie," he began. Spectacular Leonie, larger than life, who had entertained him for some years in the 20s. He had renewed their acquaintance in New York, on one of those fruitless missions of Van's to persuade the Americans to form an alliance against Germany. They had still had some residual tenderness for each other, but it had not been an unmitigated success. She was touched by the shadow of her hasty departure from Austria, while he was out of practice in both the levity she needed more than ever, and in the arts of love. Still, he smiled fondly at the memory. He could not very well send her the ruby by post, but he would leave it for her to collect in London when the war was over, as surely it would end, whether he was there to see it or not.
Some time later, having decided what to do with signet ring, DSO, and various other items of remembrance, and written the associated personal messages with a grim sort of determination, he rang the bell for Bunter and the sealing wax.
In which Lord Peter makes a will.
Lord Peter Wimsey arranged the final set of papers neatly in a manila folder, and placed them in the suitcase on the floor beside him. Murbles had sent a copy of his latest will to join the deeds of ownership related to the estate in a fire-proof box in a warehouse north of London. But one never knew. Tomorrow he would take the suitcase down to Duke's Denver on his last visit before leaving for France.
Wimsey was seated at the desk in his library overlooking Green Park, shirtsleeves rolled up and collar open in the heat of August. The room, formerly one of the most elegant bachelor rooms in London, was showing the effects of time and war. The bookshelves stood empty, the priceless volumes having been removed for safekeeping in the countryside at the first hint of bombardment. The sofas and easy chairs were covered with dust sheets. Only the baby grand piano remained as it had always been, the difficulty of finding piano movers during the Blitz having defeated even the indefatigable Bunter.
He was at this time in his early fifties, but if it had not been for the reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, Wimsey would easily have passed for a man ten years younger. His figure was as lean and spare as it had always been (perhaps aided somewhat by the clean living enforced by both wartime service and general rationing). His hair had receded at the temples and was fading to silver. But rather than aging him, this gave him an air of restrained dignity in striking contrast to his formerly silly-ass-about-town persona.
This latest will had been the cause of some mental agony. With his mother in her late seventies, and knowing that he was unlikely to return from this mission, Lord Peter had concluded that it would be best to leave the bulk of the real property to his nephew (and heir to the dukedom) and great-nephews. Of course, he had set aside a very generous annuity for Bunter, and something for his sister's children, along with bequests to various charities. But Lord Peter had reverted to type, and even with the world as he knew it collapsing around his ears, a gentleman knew what was due to the family.
No, the agony was not in deciding to leave the money to his nephew and heirs, it was in setting up a trust in such a way as to cover all the possible contingencies that arose when one's nephew was an RAF pilot whose rackety exploits on the ground matched the peril he faced in the air, his wife of 18 months standing a scatter-brained socialite, and the great-nephews in question aged but 13 months and 6 weeks. Lord Peter knew his brother worried about leaving the title in those hands. But though the circumstances were not ideal, he was himself grateful that the burden of the succession no longer lay with him, giving him a freedom to risk his own life in the service of his country.
That accounted for the business aspects of his leave-taking. With an expression of distaste, he squared his shoulders to deal with the disposal of the trinkets on the desk in front of him. In a small box lay the ruby (no trinket, that) which he had once hoped to place on the finger of the woman who even yet held his heart. That dream had been relinquished long ago, and in the intervening years he had achieved a measure of peace in devoting his energies to less egotistical ends than pursuing her. But now, on the verge of almost certain death, he toyed with the stone.
He had not seen Harriet since they parted. Professionally, he could not help but know that she had gone from strength to strength. She was simultaneously a bestselling author of escapist fiction, the first choice of reading matter in public air-raid shelters, and the toast of literary London. As to her personal life, he had no idea, and had made some effort not to know. He had long ago burned his collection of press cuttings, and the only keepsakes that remained were the few letters she had written to him in the last months of their acquaintance, a first edition of Death Twixt Wind and Water, and the ruby. He was briefly tempted to leave a letter for her, enclosing with it the stone. But the words congealed on the paper. He could find no way to express himself that was neither pathetic nor insulting.
Instead, he tossed the crumpled sheet of paper in the wastepaper basket, and started afresh. "My dear Leonie," he began. Spectacular Leonie, larger than life, who had entertained him for some years in the 20s. He had renewed their acquaintance in New York, on one of those fruitless missions of Van's to persuade the Americans to form an alliance against Germany. They had still had some residual tenderness for each other, but it had not been an unmitigated success. She was touched by the shadow of her hasty departure from Austria, while he was out of practice in both the levity she needed more than ever, and in the arts of love. Still, he smiled fondly at the memory. He could not very well send her the ruby by post, but he would leave it for her to collect in London when the war was over, as surely it would end, whether he was there to see it or not.
Some time later, having decided what to do with signet ring, DSO, and various other items of remembrance, and written the associated personal messages with a grim sort of determination, he rang the bell for Bunter and the sealing wax.