A Surprise Thing, 2/2
Rose was saved by the unlikeliest of arrivals: the farmer from the end of the road. Even as she was standing, indecisive, in the sitting room, the sound of a motor could be heard. She glanced out the window, saw a beat-up tractor slowly making its way down the track; she might have time to regroup, to work out what it was she was feeling, to find her shoes. Peter swore again, more loudly this time, as he too heard the sound of the approaching tractor, and she fought down a giggle. It would have been funny, if she weren’t so bloody mad at him.
Although mad really wasn’t the word to describe it. Angry? Yes. Frustrated? A bit-he held secrets like the Sphinx. She thought they’d moved past that, but apparently not. Betrayed? Definitely. It wasn’t even that he’d been married, once-although the fact stung, she shouldn’t have been surprised. Peter had lived, had been out in the world; she’d thought more than once that the women of Cumbria were fools not to realize what they had in their midst. He’d lived there for a long time; of course he’d have met someone. He was a romantic, as well-it only made sense that he’d have wanted to get married.
That still didn’t lessen the hurt sense of betrayal.
Rose heard Peter’s footsteps on the stairs, racing downwards; she hurried to the doorway at the far side of the room, hiding in the hallway under the upstairs landing and in between the sitting and dining rooms.
“Rose?” Peter called out; his voice was loudest from the lounge, and she silently stepped over into the dining room. It was childish, but as tempting as shouting and raging against him was, the fact was that she was stuck in the middle of nowhere with him. She’d have to calm down so they could talk about it without killing each other. Being cornered by Peter wasn’t going to help; she needed to get out of the confining space of the cottage.
There was a knock on the door, and she heard Peter mutter in Gaelic-a language he used only when he was truly frustrated-even as he opened it. She could barely understand the thick brogue of the farmer, would have been amused at the impact it had on Peter’s normally mellow accent; but all she could feel was relief when she heard the farmer ask for help with unloading the wood.
“Rose, I’ll be right back,” Peter called out, before shutting the door behind him.
She wasted no time, running upstairs for her shoes, jamming her feet into them even as she grabbed a second jumper from the wardrobe. She rushed down the stairs, casting about for her jacket, cursing when she remembered it was still in the car.
She had seen a back door during her tour of the house; after taking a moment to look out the windows, to work out where Peter and the farmer were stacking the wood, she undid the chain, unlocked the bolt, and snuck out the door.
There was, as she expected, a path going back into the brush behind the house; she set out along it, hurrying so as to be out of sight of the house before Peter was finished. She came to the track they had driven down to get to the house and she hurriedly crossed it, wanting to get as far away as possible without being seen. She wanted to be alone, wanted to think, before talking with Peter.
The low brush and small trees helped to break the wind, and she was perfectly warm even without a jacket or the second jumper. Late summer meant there was still plenty of daylight, even nearing five in the evening-well, she assumed it was near to five; she’d arrived in Kendal near noon-and she eventually slowed her pace well after she was out of view of the house. She allowed herself to just be, savouring the feel of the wind in her hair, the sun against her skin, the smell of the sea in the air.
It had been far too long since she’d been out of a city or town, since she had struck out on her own and gone exploring. It might not be an exotic alien planet but the stretch of coastline along which she found herself was new to her, and in her experience that was nearly as good.
A new path opened up to her right and she followed it, eventually returning to the beach itself. The tide was still high but was receding, and she enjoyed stopping, looking at the small tidal pools created in the sand and rock. She steadfastly refused to allow herself to think about what Peter had said-or, more to the point, how and when he had said it-channelling all of her energy into exploring what it was the shore and the sea had to offer her.
She had no idea how far she had gone, or how much time had passed, but the shoreline eventually began to rise, the flora changing from bushes or small trees to tall, dense woodland. She slowed, looking around for a likely spot for a rest; she wished she had brought some water with her to drink.
She finally settled on a patch of dry sand, pulling on the spare jumper before sitting. She noted humourlessly that it was one of Peter’s before sighing in resignation; it was warm, and that was all that mattered. She slid her shoes off, burying her toes in the cold sand, and at long last allowed herself to think on what it was Peter had told her.
It all came back to how he told her; she could live with him having an ex-wife, especially one who seemed to be as absent from his life as the woman was. It was just…had he ever meant to tell her? He clearly hadn’t intended to at the time he had said it, which raised the more troubling question of what else he was keeping from her. He’d told her so little about his family, about his life before; what other secrets and surprises lurked in his unknown past? She’d told him all there was to know in the months they’d been dating-all about Jimmy Stone; about the Doctor and their relationship; about Mickey; about life in the other universe. Didn’t Peter trust her enough to do the same? He didn’t have to tell her his life story, but she’d have hoped he’d tell her the important things-the things like, “I was married, once.”
He’d been thinking of his ex-wife when they were in bed together, after he’d told her he’d dreamt of bringing her north to the coast. Was that…did he…did he think of his former wife-or any other woman-when they were in bed together? She gagged slightly at the idea, her stomach revolting at the notion. He’d told her so many times that he wanted her to see him, to see Peter Carlisle and not some ghost from the past. Was he doing the very thing he feared so much, to her?
She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs, hugging herself-unable to stop herself from inhaling the lingering scent of Peter on his sweater. She’d gone and fallen in love with a man she was only slowly coming to know-in bits and pieces during weekends here, days there. She’d seen him first thing in the morning, or in the throes of passion; but as she thought about it, she’d really only seen him in a limited set of circumstances.
She’d told him, once, that she didn’t want to leave Kendal because she worried it might change things between them; she wondered anew if, away from the North, Peter was a completely different person to the one she had come to know in the few months they’d been seriously dating.
She rested her head on her knees, closing her eyes. What was she doing? Had this all been a dream, some kind of cosmic mirror of her experiences with the Doctor? If she somehow unaccountably jumped universes again, would she be doomed to fall in love once more with a charming stranger who she would never really get to know?
She sighed, allowing the sound of the waves to lull her; she had to go back, had to talk with Peter about all of this, for better or for worse. It was the absolute last thing she wanted to do; she’d be perfectly happy to remain on the beach, hiding from Peter-from the issue at hand-indefinitely. Still, best to go back and be done with it; if things went badly she’d still need time to find a way out of wherever they were, to get back to at least a town with a train station.
She brushed the sand off her feet as best as possible before putting her shoes back on; standing, she swiped half-heartedly at the sand on her trousers as she turned to walk back along the shoreline. She paid more attention to the things on the land this time, noting the small car park for beachgoers, the large manor house sitting back several hundred meters from the beach. There was farmland in abundance, and she wondered what it was the farmers grew; several of the fields had been tilled, and had small green shoots rising out of the earth.
She felt as though she’d been walking forever before she came to the small path which she’d taken to the shore. She opted to ignore it, instead staying on the beach for the rest of her walk.
Peter was waiting for her when she got back, sitting at a small weathered table along the shore; she’d not noticed it when they’d first arrived, and she wasn’t sure she’d have seen it from the house. He was staring out towards the water, his feet kicked out in front of him, his ankles as well as his arms crossed. Behind him, smoke rose from both chimneys only to be swept away by the wind.
She slowed, finally coming to stand a few feet away from him; even now she didn’t know what to say, and felt frustration bubble within her anew. Still, she could be just as stubborn as Peter could, and she held her tongue; she wanted him to be the one to speak first.
He eventually did, breaking the chilly silence without looking at her. “When I was a lad of twenty-three, I finally found a job with the constabulary. I’d been looking for a while, trying to find a way away from here, to find some force who’d give me a chance. Kendal was perfect; not too far, not too close-and if things didn’t work out, it wouldn’t take much effort to hie back here and start over yet again.”
He took a deep breath, uncrossed his arms, and continued. “My first year in Kendal, I met a woman by the name of Loreen; my first partner had set us up on a blind date, you see, and being new to town I was happy to go. We got on well enough, and a year after we started to date, I asked her to marry me. I…I thought that’s what was supposed to happen: Graduate Uni, get job, find wife, live happily ever after. Only…that’s not how it worked for me. We’d had problems before, she and I, arguing and making each other miserable; I wasn’t who she wanted me to be, and I tried so hard to pretend she was exactly the woman I’d hoped for. Still, she said yes, and we were married not three months after that.
“You’ve seen the house-that’s one of the few good things to come of the marriage. We fought constantly; we were so very different, and I was still very, very young. At some point during our short legal bondage, she took up with another of the men in the station; I-blind, stupid, sod that I was-couldn’t see it, and enjoyed the first experience of having my colleagues laugh behind my back. It all finally came out just over a year into the marriage, and by the age of twenty-six, I was a divorcee. I’ve spoken to her exactly three times since then.”
“What do you want me to say, Peter?” she finally asked, wearily.
He turned to her, his eyes dark and his skin exceptionally pale. “I don’t want you to say anything, Rose; this isn’t some kind of quiz to which there’s an answer for everything.” She clenched her jaw, staring at the horizon, and he continued. “I wanted you to know what happened; to know the truth.”
“Were you ever going to tell me?” she finally asked, the wind still whipping around them.
“Yes! It’s not something I share with all and sundry, but I certainly would have told you, Rose.”
“When?” She couldn’t stop the word from escaping her lips.
“I don’t know.” He sounded defeated, and she saw him turn back to the sea.
“Why…” Rose felt her throat clench around the next question, the simple thought of it once again making her eyes prick with tears. Why did you think of her when we were in bed together, if you never talk with her?
Peter misunderstood her, and stood, agitated. “Why don’t I know? I don’t know, Rose.”
“We were in bed together, Peter!” She couldn’t bring herself to ask the question, but he seemed to understand.
“I wasn’t-I don’t think of her when we’re together, Rose; not normally. But today; I was lying there, you in my arms, thinking about the cottage, about life. And I just had this flash of thought, that I’d never brought her here-not once in the years we were together, did I even tell her about it. And yet I couldn’t wait to get you here, to show it to you.” He turned, gesturing to the cottage. “This is a part of me, Rose-I wanted you to know about it, to see it.”
He wanted her to know about the cottage, this part of him-but it still begged the question why he hadn’t wanted her to know about the other parts of him, like his marriage. “Why didn’t you tell me about her?” Her voice was small.
Peter moved to stand in front of her, stopping within arms reach. “I wanted to tell you. You have no idea how often I’ve thought about it, wondered how you would take the news; wondered if I would have the strength to tell you about her, knowing you might not want to be with me after.”
“You didn’t trust me,” Rose whispered, shivering in the breeze.
“No! That’s not it, Rose!”
“You didn’t think I’d be able to handle it!”
“No! That’s-”
“You thought I’d leave you, because you were married once?”
“No! I…I feared you would, Rose. Because why would you be with me? I live in constant fear that one morning you’ll wake up, and realise just who it is you’re with; you’ll find out who I really am, and you’ll want nothing to do with me. I’m a bloody Detective Inspector from the back of beyond; you’re the heiress to the Vitex fortune, who’s travelled places and done things I can’t imagine. The tabloids have it right-what on earth are you doing with me?”
He walked back to the small bench, collapsing onto it.
“You know why I’m with you, Peter.”
“I just wish I could believe you, Rose.”
“Dammit, Peter! I can only tell you so many times, in so many ways, that I’m with you because you’re you! You have to believe me; you have to trust me, that I care about you, that I want to see you, to be with you, to sleep with you. D’you think this is some dalliance? That I’ll string you along for months and then dump you, simply for my own pleasure? If you even consider entertaining that thought, you don’t know me at all.”
She stepped away from him, fighting the urge to be sick. He didn’t trust her; he didn’t believe in her.
“I think I want to leave, now,” she choked out.
“What?” He turned to her, his expression disbelieving.
“You don’t trust me, Peter. You don’t think I want to be with you, you don’t think I can handle your telling me about your past. What’s the point, then, of us being together? If I’m not someone who can be there for you, who you trust and who believes in you in return, then why are we wasting our time like this? I’ll not be happy, and you’ll always be wracked with fear; we’ll kill each other, in the end. Let’s just end it now and be done with it.”
Her heart fought against the words even as she said them. If he agreed, if he drove her away from there and never looked back, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to recover. And yet...would it be any worse than loving him, knowing that he didn’t trust her in return? Was she going to be doomed, in this universe, to see the men she loved walk away from her-or simply vanish-on windswept beaches?
“Please, Rose.” He was up on his feet, moving to stand in front of her again.
“I can’t live like this, Peter.”
He ran his hands through his hair, looking around desperately. “I-it’s not you, Rose. It’s not; it’s not that I don’t trust you, I swear. I just…I don’t trust myself; I don’t trust my luck. Life has never been so kind to me; how could I suddenly be so very lucky?”
“You have to trust me not to hurt you deliberately-just as I trust you not to deliberately hurt me. You have to believe in us, Peter.”
He forced his hands into his pockets, stepping towards her. His eyes blazed as he looked at her, and she felt a flush of heat spread across her cheeks. “I do, Rose. I do believe in us.” His voice was low, quavering with intensity. “I would do anything for you, Rose, you have to know that.”
I love you. The words were there, in the air between them; she wanted to say them, to let him know how hard this was for her, by finally uttering the phrase, saying the words she demonstrated every time they were together. She couldn’t-saying it now would make the sentiment nothing more than a weapon, would cheapen it to the point that it would be meaningless, in the end. They had to work through this first, to come to terms with the key to their relationship: without trust, the love would be meaningless.
She’d always be grateful to the Doctor for teaching her that.
She couldn’t help reaching out with her hand, stroking her fingers along his cheek. He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, his skin cold against her fingers. “Then trust me, Peter,” she whispered.
He sighed, turning briefly to kiss her palm before reopening his eyes. “I want to. Rose...I’ll try.”
Peter wouldn’t be able to give her more than that; now the question lay with her. Could she accept that he’d be willing to try? Or would even that not be enough?
She swallowed before she replied, “Ok.”
He took a step towards her, his hands still stuffed in his pockets. “I’m sorry, Rose. I should have told you before.”
She crossed her arms, rubbing her hands over the wool of the jumpers to try to warm up. “’s ok.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It is, Peter, really. It’s…I don’t mind that you were married.”
“You don’t?” His voice was low, but the note of disbelief was evident.
“I don’t. I harboured no illusions about your past; I figured someone in the north would have been smart enough to try to marry you.”
He gave a half-hearted laugh, unsure of just how much she was joking if at all. Rose turned, bumping her shoulder lightly against his. “I mean it, y’know. Was a shock, finding out the way I did-but that’s not what upset me.”
He bumped back into her, leaning his shoulder down. “I’m sorry about that, too. Rest assured that when we’re in bed together-or the shower, or the bath-that you’re the only one I’m thinking of.”
His eyes were warm, but there was no lasciviousness behind the words; for Peter, it was a simple statement of fact.
“Just…give me a chance, is all I’m asking, Peter.”
“I will, Rose. I promise.”
She looked up at him; his brown eyes were full of emotion, and she reached up to cup his jaw. “Done, and sealed with a kiss.” She leaned up, gently brushing her lips across his.
He looked disbelieving as she stepped away, holding her hand out to him. “That’s it, then?”
“It’s a process, Peter, not a one-time row.” She wiggled her fingers, and he removed a hand from his pocket, wrapping his warm fingers around her cold ones. “It’s not going to magically fix itself overnight; we have to both keep working at it. You an’ me.”
“You?”
It was time to mend fences, she thought. It was time to prove he could trust her, that she was there and she would stay-that they would work through this and they would come out the other end-that she was serious about having a relationship with him. Her heart ached from being bruised that day, and her head ached from her melancholic ponderings on the beach, but she managed, for his sake, a grin, and reached to pull him with her towards the beckoning warmth of the cottage. “Me. I need to convince you that you’re well worth my time.”
He sped up to walk beside her at that point, even reaching the door before she did and pushing it open for her. It was with relief that she walked into the cosy confines of the cottage.
“Is that so?”
“It is. First step: I’ll make you a proper cuppa.”
“That’s…not what I had in mind, Rose.” Peter looked uncomfortable even as he tried to make the joke; they were so used to flirting, to using banter to deal with any awkward situations. This was their first real row; it was going to take a little time for them both to find their way.
She took his hand, giving him a soft smile. “I’ll wager not.”
The kitchen was a bit of a mess-Peter had apparently dumped the supplies his neighbour had provided, not bothering to put them away. It was probably the one benefit of having a kitchen as cold as the one she was currently standing in-no need for a chiller.
There was one, of course, and Peter put the milk, eggs, and produce away as Rose set about making water for the tea. She couldn’t remember the last time she used a proper kettle on a stove; there was something soothing about the rattling sound of the water as it came to boil, of the whistle sounding once the kettle was ready. Peter had set the mugs out, and she warmed them as he pulled the tea down from the shelf. There was a comfort to how well they worked together, each anticipating what would be needed next, and it went some ways towards helping to ease the residual tension from their fight.
The dining room was much warmer; Peter had started a fire in the fireplace at some point while she was gone-while she was out thinking. She tried not to let the melancholy of those thoughts intrude, instead focusing on the here and the now; on starting to work, together with Peter, on building this new facet of their relationship.
They moved to the oval table in front of the fireplace, sitting near each other facing the fire. Rose once again wasn’t quite sure what to say, and so briefly looked around. There was a dark wood hutch in the corner, the façade angling between the two walls. It looked as ancient as the house. The stone walls had been limewashed, and the entire room was incredibly bright-a sharp contrast to the parlour.
Peter seemed disinclined to break the silence, sipping his tea while staring at the fire, or sneaking glances at her. She fought back a sigh. This was as bad as their first weeks knowing each other.
“So…your house. In Kendal. It, ah…came from your marriage?” she finally ventured tentatively. She didn’t want to know about his being married, and yet she did; it was part of him, and she wanted to understand what had happened. And she wanted to let him know that she did care, that what had happened to him was important to her.
He stared down into his mug, swirling the tea around thoughtfully before responding. “It did, yes.” He raised his eyes, meeting hers, and continued. “Part of the dream, that-Uni, job, wife...house. I got lucky with it, really-stumbled across it whilst in the neighbourhood for work, was able to come to favourable terms quite quickly, and was in possession of it before…before the wedding.” He rushed the phrase out.
“You’ve been in it a long time, then,” she replied softly, not wanting the conversation to taper off. Things were awkward enough between them-she wasn’t sure she’d have the courage to re-start the conversation, to talk about Peter having been married before, if it stalled out.
“I have. There’s not much I’ve kept from that…misadventure.” He took a long drink of his tea before setting the mug down with a thunk on the table. “You…you should probably know…”
It wasn’t the most soothing phrase to hear him say. To calm her edgy nerves, she set her mug down next to his before leaning forward. His hands were sitting limply in his lap, and she reached over, taking one and beginning to gently work at massaging his palm. “I should probably know what, Peter?” She would listen-she could do this. It was who he was; it was his past.
He closed his eyes-whether in resignation or because of her hands, she didn’t know. “Right before Loreen told me she was done wasting her time with me-very close to the end, really…that’s where the bed came from.”
He was verbally jumping around as he wrestled with what to tell her and how; she wasn’t quite sure of his train of thought, and so kept gently working her thumbs over his hand. “The bed…”
“It came from the marriage. I was up north one day, saw the frame sitting outside an old antique shop along the road. I saw it, and…I wanted it. I thought she might like it, too-even then, before it was polished up, it was lovely. She…she thought it was too ornate, too flowery. We never did agree on things, least of all matters of taste,” he added, ruefully.
She raised her gaze from their hands, and found him looking at her intently. “Clearly she was a heathen,” Rose offered lightly. She released the hand she had been massaging, and reached for his other.
“That’s one word, I suppose,” he replied, dryly. Rose started to work her thumbs over the meat of his hand, and he continued. “The wardrobe came about the same way; I found it whilst working one day-another antique store on another little road-and had to have it. I thought perhaps it would be more to her taste; but she hated it right away. She kept threatening to have it chopped into firewood while I was working.”
She didn’t deserve you, Rose thought. She could see, quite clearly in her minds’ eye, Peter wrestling the furniture into a hired van, dragging it up the stairs (he had to have had help, surely?), nearly killing himself to bring home something that had brought him joy, that he thought would bring equal joy to the woman he’d married. She couldn’t fathom the cold-heartedness necessary to kill that kind of love, to dismiss something so clearly cherished by a life partner. And to know that someone had done that to Peter...
She had returned her gaze to Peter’s hand, watching as her fingers worked the muscles there. She could feel Peter’s eyes on her, and she bit her lip as she concentrated on not looking up, on not blushing.
“There was never an issue of her taking the furniture with her when she left; she’d hated it from the day I brought it home. I think I might have been more relieved about that, than about anything else in that mess.”
Rose brought his hand to her mouth, kissing his palm before returning it to his lap. “I think the furniture’s lovely,” she finally offered softly.
“I…it means a lot to me, the bed. I don’t know why-it just does. And then we were in the room that night, and you told me how much you liked it; how much you liked something that was important to me…and…” He shrugged. “Well, if you ever needed to know-complimenting my bed is a sure way to get me into it.”
The awkward humour was back, and she smiled. “I’ll bear that in mind, should the need arise.”
She looked around the room once more, commenting on the old hutch; he replied with a lengthy explanation of its history. It helped to move the conversation onto more neutral ground, and they spent the next couple of hours simply talking with one another, Peter periodically moving to add a log to the fire in the fireplace. Their conversation was only interrupted by the growl of Rose’s stomach, and they briefly moved to the (still cold) kitchen so Peter could make a light supper.
They had dinner in the dining room, the firelight providing the bulk of the light as the sun finally began to set. The fire was beginning to die by the time they finished, and Peter stood with a resigned sigh. “May as well bank that down for the night; care to move next door?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
She cleared the plates as he covered the coals with ash, running water in the sink to wash up after dinner-the result of their agreeing to a simple rule in the first month of their relationship, that the cook would never have to do the dishes. As she washed the plates, she heard Peter’s footsteps on the stairs; she hoped he was seeing to the fireplace in the bedroom, and felt a nervous flutter in her stomach at the thought of sleeping with him. She slept so much better when he was there next to her, and loved losing herself in his embrace as she drifted off to sleep. But tonight, after their first real row, she wondered: Would it be awkward? Uncomfortable?
She shook her head, returning her focus to the tepid water running over the silverware; they’d cross that bridge when they came to it. Together.
By the time she finished the dishes and moved to the sitting room, Peter was standing in front of the bookcase. He’d turned on the two lamps in the room, had added some more wood to the fireplace, and she felt herself relax as the atmosphere washed over her.
It really was like something out of a novel.
He selected a book and moved to sit on the sofa; he looked at her, expectantly, and she walked over to join him.
“I suppose you’ll tell me you don’t bite,” she said as she settled next to him.
“You know me better than that, I should think. But tonight? No, not at all.”
There was a moment of supreme awkwardness as they stared at each other. Normally, if Peter was reading to her, she would lay back against his chest, one of his arms wrapped around her as the other held the book. Tonight…what once seemed so natural suddenly loomed as A Big Thing.
She wasn’t up for making love to him-not yet, not so soon after the intensity of the afternoon-but she was certainly up for leaning against him, re-learning how to be comfortable in his embrace. She turned, checking him with her hip. “Budge over-there’s two of us here.”
His smile was brilliant, and she felt her heart flutter. He shifted, reclining into the corner of the couch; she slowly leaned back against him, sighing as he brought an arm around her.
“What’re you reading tonight?” she asked, weariness suddenly stealing over her.
“It’s a surprise. Now close your eyes, or I’ll not read to you at all.”
She smiled, closing her eyes as he requested. She felt his arms move, heard the rustle of paper as he leafed through the book to the first page. A hand came to rest over her stomach and she felt him brush a light kiss across her hair before he started, “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife..."
Although mad really wasn’t the word to describe it. Angry? Yes. Frustrated? A bit-he held secrets like the Sphinx. She thought they’d moved past that, but apparently not. Betrayed? Definitely. It wasn’t even that he’d been married, once-although the fact stung, she shouldn’t have been surprised. Peter had lived, had been out in the world; she’d thought more than once that the women of Cumbria were fools not to realize what they had in their midst. He’d lived there for a long time; of course he’d have met someone. He was a romantic, as well-it only made sense that he’d have wanted to get married.
That still didn’t lessen the hurt sense of betrayal.
Rose heard Peter’s footsteps on the stairs, racing downwards; she hurried to the doorway at the far side of the room, hiding in the hallway under the upstairs landing and in between the sitting and dining rooms.
“Rose?” Peter called out; his voice was loudest from the lounge, and she silently stepped over into the dining room. It was childish, but as tempting as shouting and raging against him was, the fact was that she was stuck in the middle of nowhere with him. She’d have to calm down so they could talk about it without killing each other. Being cornered by Peter wasn’t going to help; she needed to get out of the confining space of the cottage.
There was a knock on the door, and she heard Peter mutter in Gaelic-a language he used only when he was truly frustrated-even as he opened it. She could barely understand the thick brogue of the farmer, would have been amused at the impact it had on Peter’s normally mellow accent; but all she could feel was relief when she heard the farmer ask for help with unloading the wood.
“Rose, I’ll be right back,” Peter called out, before shutting the door behind him.
She wasted no time, running upstairs for her shoes, jamming her feet into them even as she grabbed a second jumper from the wardrobe. She rushed down the stairs, casting about for her jacket, cursing when she remembered it was still in the car.
She had seen a back door during her tour of the house; after taking a moment to look out the windows, to work out where Peter and the farmer were stacking the wood, she undid the chain, unlocked the bolt, and snuck out the door.
There was, as she expected, a path going back into the brush behind the house; she set out along it, hurrying so as to be out of sight of the house before Peter was finished. She came to the track they had driven down to get to the house and she hurriedly crossed it, wanting to get as far away as possible without being seen. She wanted to be alone, wanted to think, before talking with Peter.
The low brush and small trees helped to break the wind, and she was perfectly warm even without a jacket or the second jumper. Late summer meant there was still plenty of daylight, even nearing five in the evening-well, she assumed it was near to five; she’d arrived in Kendal near noon-and she eventually slowed her pace well after she was out of view of the house. She allowed herself to just be, savouring the feel of the wind in her hair, the sun against her skin, the smell of the sea in the air.
It had been far too long since she’d been out of a city or town, since she had struck out on her own and gone exploring. It might not be an exotic alien planet but the stretch of coastline along which she found herself was new to her, and in her experience that was nearly as good.
A new path opened up to her right and she followed it, eventually returning to the beach itself. The tide was still high but was receding, and she enjoyed stopping, looking at the small tidal pools created in the sand and rock. She steadfastly refused to allow herself to think about what Peter had said-or, more to the point, how and when he had said it-channelling all of her energy into exploring what it was the shore and the sea had to offer her.
She had no idea how far she had gone, or how much time had passed, but the shoreline eventually began to rise, the flora changing from bushes or small trees to tall, dense woodland. She slowed, looking around for a likely spot for a rest; she wished she had brought some water with her to drink.
She finally settled on a patch of dry sand, pulling on the spare jumper before sitting. She noted humourlessly that it was one of Peter’s before sighing in resignation; it was warm, and that was all that mattered. She slid her shoes off, burying her toes in the cold sand, and at long last allowed herself to think on what it was Peter had told her.
It all came back to how he told her; she could live with him having an ex-wife, especially one who seemed to be as absent from his life as the woman was. It was just…had he ever meant to tell her? He clearly hadn’t intended to at the time he had said it, which raised the more troubling question of what else he was keeping from her. He’d told her so little about his family, about his life before; what other secrets and surprises lurked in his unknown past? She’d told him all there was to know in the months they’d been dating-all about Jimmy Stone; about the Doctor and their relationship; about Mickey; about life in the other universe. Didn’t Peter trust her enough to do the same? He didn’t have to tell her his life story, but she’d have hoped he’d tell her the important things-the things like, “I was married, once.”
He’d been thinking of his ex-wife when they were in bed together, after he’d told her he’d dreamt of bringing her north to the coast. Was that…did he…did he think of his former wife-or any other woman-when they were in bed together? She gagged slightly at the idea, her stomach revolting at the notion. He’d told her so many times that he wanted her to see him, to see Peter Carlisle and not some ghost from the past. Was he doing the very thing he feared so much, to her?
She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs, hugging herself-unable to stop herself from inhaling the lingering scent of Peter on his sweater. She’d gone and fallen in love with a man she was only slowly coming to know-in bits and pieces during weekends here, days there. She’d seen him first thing in the morning, or in the throes of passion; but as she thought about it, she’d really only seen him in a limited set of circumstances.
She’d told him, once, that she didn’t want to leave Kendal because she worried it might change things between them; she wondered anew if, away from the North, Peter was a completely different person to the one she had come to know in the few months they’d been seriously dating.
She rested her head on her knees, closing her eyes. What was she doing? Had this all been a dream, some kind of cosmic mirror of her experiences with the Doctor? If she somehow unaccountably jumped universes again, would she be doomed to fall in love once more with a charming stranger who she would never really get to know?
She sighed, allowing the sound of the waves to lull her; she had to go back, had to talk with Peter about all of this, for better or for worse. It was the absolute last thing she wanted to do; she’d be perfectly happy to remain on the beach, hiding from Peter-from the issue at hand-indefinitely. Still, best to go back and be done with it; if things went badly she’d still need time to find a way out of wherever they were, to get back to at least a town with a train station.
She brushed the sand off her feet as best as possible before putting her shoes back on; standing, she swiped half-heartedly at the sand on her trousers as she turned to walk back along the shoreline. She paid more attention to the things on the land this time, noting the small car park for beachgoers, the large manor house sitting back several hundred meters from the beach. There was farmland in abundance, and she wondered what it was the farmers grew; several of the fields had been tilled, and had small green shoots rising out of the earth.
She felt as though she’d been walking forever before she came to the small path which she’d taken to the shore. She opted to ignore it, instead staying on the beach for the rest of her walk.
Peter was waiting for her when she got back, sitting at a small weathered table along the shore; she’d not noticed it when they’d first arrived, and she wasn’t sure she’d have seen it from the house. He was staring out towards the water, his feet kicked out in front of him, his ankles as well as his arms crossed. Behind him, smoke rose from both chimneys only to be swept away by the wind.
She slowed, finally coming to stand a few feet away from him; even now she didn’t know what to say, and felt frustration bubble within her anew. Still, she could be just as stubborn as Peter could, and she held her tongue; she wanted him to be the one to speak first.
He eventually did, breaking the chilly silence without looking at her. “When I was a lad of twenty-three, I finally found a job with the constabulary. I’d been looking for a while, trying to find a way away from here, to find some force who’d give me a chance. Kendal was perfect; not too far, not too close-and if things didn’t work out, it wouldn’t take much effort to hie back here and start over yet again.”
He took a deep breath, uncrossed his arms, and continued. “My first year in Kendal, I met a woman by the name of Loreen; my first partner had set us up on a blind date, you see, and being new to town I was happy to go. We got on well enough, and a year after we started to date, I asked her to marry me. I…I thought that’s what was supposed to happen: Graduate Uni, get job, find wife, live happily ever after. Only…that’s not how it worked for me. We’d had problems before, she and I, arguing and making each other miserable; I wasn’t who she wanted me to be, and I tried so hard to pretend she was exactly the woman I’d hoped for. Still, she said yes, and we were married not three months after that.
“You’ve seen the house-that’s one of the few good things to come of the marriage. We fought constantly; we were so very different, and I was still very, very young. At some point during our short legal bondage, she took up with another of the men in the station; I-blind, stupid, sod that I was-couldn’t see it, and enjoyed the first experience of having my colleagues laugh behind my back. It all finally came out just over a year into the marriage, and by the age of twenty-six, I was a divorcee. I’ve spoken to her exactly three times since then.”
“What do you want me to say, Peter?” she finally asked, wearily.
He turned to her, his eyes dark and his skin exceptionally pale. “I don’t want you to say anything, Rose; this isn’t some kind of quiz to which there’s an answer for everything.” She clenched her jaw, staring at the horizon, and he continued. “I wanted you to know what happened; to know the truth.”
“Were you ever going to tell me?” she finally asked, the wind still whipping around them.
“Yes! It’s not something I share with all and sundry, but I certainly would have told you, Rose.”
“When?” She couldn’t stop the word from escaping her lips.
“I don’t know.” He sounded defeated, and she saw him turn back to the sea.
“Why…” Rose felt her throat clench around the next question, the simple thought of it once again making her eyes prick with tears. Why did you think of her when we were in bed together, if you never talk with her?
Peter misunderstood her, and stood, agitated. “Why don’t I know? I don’t know, Rose.”
“We were in bed together, Peter!” She couldn’t bring herself to ask the question, but he seemed to understand.
“I wasn’t-I don’t think of her when we’re together, Rose; not normally. But today; I was lying there, you in my arms, thinking about the cottage, about life. And I just had this flash of thought, that I’d never brought her here-not once in the years we were together, did I even tell her about it. And yet I couldn’t wait to get you here, to show it to you.” He turned, gesturing to the cottage. “This is a part of me, Rose-I wanted you to know about it, to see it.”
He wanted her to know about the cottage, this part of him-but it still begged the question why he hadn’t wanted her to know about the other parts of him, like his marriage. “Why didn’t you tell me about her?” Her voice was small.
Peter moved to stand in front of her, stopping within arms reach. “I wanted to tell you. You have no idea how often I’ve thought about it, wondered how you would take the news; wondered if I would have the strength to tell you about her, knowing you might not want to be with me after.”
“You didn’t trust me,” Rose whispered, shivering in the breeze.
“No! That’s not it, Rose!”
“You didn’t think I’d be able to handle it!”
“No! That’s-”
“You thought I’d leave you, because you were married once?”
“No! I…I feared you would, Rose. Because why would you be with me? I live in constant fear that one morning you’ll wake up, and realise just who it is you’re with; you’ll find out who I really am, and you’ll want nothing to do with me. I’m a bloody Detective Inspector from the back of beyond; you’re the heiress to the Vitex fortune, who’s travelled places and done things I can’t imagine. The tabloids have it right-what on earth are you doing with me?”
He walked back to the small bench, collapsing onto it.
“You know why I’m with you, Peter.”
“I just wish I could believe you, Rose.”
“Dammit, Peter! I can only tell you so many times, in so many ways, that I’m with you because you’re you! You have to believe me; you have to trust me, that I care about you, that I want to see you, to be with you, to sleep with you. D’you think this is some dalliance? That I’ll string you along for months and then dump you, simply for my own pleasure? If you even consider entertaining that thought, you don’t know me at all.”
She stepped away from him, fighting the urge to be sick. He didn’t trust her; he didn’t believe in her.
“I think I want to leave, now,” she choked out.
“What?” He turned to her, his expression disbelieving.
“You don’t trust me, Peter. You don’t think I want to be with you, you don’t think I can handle your telling me about your past. What’s the point, then, of us being together? If I’m not someone who can be there for you, who you trust and who believes in you in return, then why are we wasting our time like this? I’ll not be happy, and you’ll always be wracked with fear; we’ll kill each other, in the end. Let’s just end it now and be done with it.”
Her heart fought against the words even as she said them. If he agreed, if he drove her away from there and never looked back, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to recover. And yet...would it be any worse than loving him, knowing that he didn’t trust her in return? Was she going to be doomed, in this universe, to see the men she loved walk away from her-or simply vanish-on windswept beaches?
“Please, Rose.” He was up on his feet, moving to stand in front of her again.
“I can’t live like this, Peter.”
He ran his hands through his hair, looking around desperately. “I-it’s not you, Rose. It’s not; it’s not that I don’t trust you, I swear. I just…I don’t trust myself; I don’t trust my luck. Life has never been so kind to me; how could I suddenly be so very lucky?”
“You have to trust me not to hurt you deliberately-just as I trust you not to deliberately hurt me. You have to believe in us, Peter.”
He forced his hands into his pockets, stepping towards her. His eyes blazed as he looked at her, and she felt a flush of heat spread across her cheeks. “I do, Rose. I do believe in us.” His voice was low, quavering with intensity. “I would do anything for you, Rose, you have to know that.”
I love you. The words were there, in the air between them; she wanted to say them, to let him know how hard this was for her, by finally uttering the phrase, saying the words she demonstrated every time they were together. She couldn’t-saying it now would make the sentiment nothing more than a weapon, would cheapen it to the point that it would be meaningless, in the end. They had to work through this first, to come to terms with the key to their relationship: without trust, the love would be meaningless.
She’d always be grateful to the Doctor for teaching her that.
She couldn’t help reaching out with her hand, stroking her fingers along his cheek. He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, his skin cold against her fingers. “Then trust me, Peter,” she whispered.
He sighed, turning briefly to kiss her palm before reopening his eyes. “I want to. Rose...I’ll try.”
Peter wouldn’t be able to give her more than that; now the question lay with her. Could she accept that he’d be willing to try? Or would even that not be enough?
She swallowed before she replied, “Ok.”
He took a step towards her, his hands still stuffed in his pockets. “I’m sorry, Rose. I should have told you before.”
She crossed her arms, rubbing her hands over the wool of the jumpers to try to warm up. “’s ok.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It is, Peter, really. It’s…I don’t mind that you were married.”
“You don’t?” His voice was low, but the note of disbelief was evident.
“I don’t. I harboured no illusions about your past; I figured someone in the north would have been smart enough to try to marry you.”
He gave a half-hearted laugh, unsure of just how much she was joking if at all. Rose turned, bumping her shoulder lightly against his. “I mean it, y’know. Was a shock, finding out the way I did-but that’s not what upset me.”
He bumped back into her, leaning his shoulder down. “I’m sorry about that, too. Rest assured that when we’re in bed together-or the shower, or the bath-that you’re the only one I’m thinking of.”
His eyes were warm, but there was no lasciviousness behind the words; for Peter, it was a simple statement of fact.
“Just…give me a chance, is all I’m asking, Peter.”
“I will, Rose. I promise.”
She looked up at him; his brown eyes were full of emotion, and she reached up to cup his jaw. “Done, and sealed with a kiss.” She leaned up, gently brushing her lips across his.
He looked disbelieving as she stepped away, holding her hand out to him. “That’s it, then?”
“It’s a process, Peter, not a one-time row.” She wiggled her fingers, and he removed a hand from his pocket, wrapping his warm fingers around her cold ones. “It’s not going to magically fix itself overnight; we have to both keep working at it. You an’ me.”
“You?”
It was time to mend fences, she thought. It was time to prove he could trust her, that she was there and she would stay-that they would work through this and they would come out the other end-that she was serious about having a relationship with him. Her heart ached from being bruised that day, and her head ached from her melancholic ponderings on the beach, but she managed, for his sake, a grin, and reached to pull him with her towards the beckoning warmth of the cottage. “Me. I need to convince you that you’re well worth my time.”
He sped up to walk beside her at that point, even reaching the door before she did and pushing it open for her. It was with relief that she walked into the cosy confines of the cottage.
“Is that so?”
“It is. First step: I’ll make you a proper cuppa.”
“That’s…not what I had in mind, Rose.” Peter looked uncomfortable even as he tried to make the joke; they were so used to flirting, to using banter to deal with any awkward situations. This was their first real row; it was going to take a little time for them both to find their way.
She took his hand, giving him a soft smile. “I’ll wager not.”
The kitchen was a bit of a mess-Peter had apparently dumped the supplies his neighbour had provided, not bothering to put them away. It was probably the one benefit of having a kitchen as cold as the one she was currently standing in-no need for a chiller.
There was one, of course, and Peter put the milk, eggs, and produce away as Rose set about making water for the tea. She couldn’t remember the last time she used a proper kettle on a stove; there was something soothing about the rattling sound of the water as it came to boil, of the whistle sounding once the kettle was ready. Peter had set the mugs out, and she warmed them as he pulled the tea down from the shelf. There was a comfort to how well they worked together, each anticipating what would be needed next, and it went some ways towards helping to ease the residual tension from their fight.
The dining room was much warmer; Peter had started a fire in the fireplace at some point while she was gone-while she was out thinking. She tried not to let the melancholy of those thoughts intrude, instead focusing on the here and the now; on starting to work, together with Peter, on building this new facet of their relationship.
They moved to the oval table in front of the fireplace, sitting near each other facing the fire. Rose once again wasn’t quite sure what to say, and so briefly looked around. There was a dark wood hutch in the corner, the façade angling between the two walls. It looked as ancient as the house. The stone walls had been limewashed, and the entire room was incredibly bright-a sharp contrast to the parlour.
Peter seemed disinclined to break the silence, sipping his tea while staring at the fire, or sneaking glances at her. She fought back a sigh. This was as bad as their first weeks knowing each other.
“So…your house. In Kendal. It, ah…came from your marriage?” she finally ventured tentatively. She didn’t want to know about his being married, and yet she did; it was part of him, and she wanted to understand what had happened. And she wanted to let him know that she did care, that what had happened to him was important to her.
He stared down into his mug, swirling the tea around thoughtfully before responding. “It did, yes.” He raised his eyes, meeting hers, and continued. “Part of the dream, that-Uni, job, wife...house. I got lucky with it, really-stumbled across it whilst in the neighbourhood for work, was able to come to favourable terms quite quickly, and was in possession of it before…before the wedding.” He rushed the phrase out.
“You’ve been in it a long time, then,” she replied softly, not wanting the conversation to taper off. Things were awkward enough between them-she wasn’t sure she’d have the courage to re-start the conversation, to talk about Peter having been married before, if it stalled out.
“I have. There’s not much I’ve kept from that…misadventure.” He took a long drink of his tea before setting the mug down with a thunk on the table. “You…you should probably know…”
It wasn’t the most soothing phrase to hear him say. To calm her edgy nerves, she set her mug down next to his before leaning forward. His hands were sitting limply in his lap, and she reached over, taking one and beginning to gently work at massaging his palm. “I should probably know what, Peter?” She would listen-she could do this. It was who he was; it was his past.
He closed his eyes-whether in resignation or because of her hands, she didn’t know. “Right before Loreen told me she was done wasting her time with me-very close to the end, really…that’s where the bed came from.”
He was verbally jumping around as he wrestled with what to tell her and how; she wasn’t quite sure of his train of thought, and so kept gently working her thumbs over his hand. “The bed…”
“It came from the marriage. I was up north one day, saw the frame sitting outside an old antique shop along the road. I saw it, and…I wanted it. I thought she might like it, too-even then, before it was polished up, it was lovely. She…she thought it was too ornate, too flowery. We never did agree on things, least of all matters of taste,” he added, ruefully.
She raised her gaze from their hands, and found him looking at her intently. “Clearly she was a heathen,” Rose offered lightly. She released the hand she had been massaging, and reached for his other.
“That’s one word, I suppose,” he replied, dryly. Rose started to work her thumbs over the meat of his hand, and he continued. “The wardrobe came about the same way; I found it whilst working one day-another antique store on another little road-and had to have it. I thought perhaps it would be more to her taste; but she hated it right away. She kept threatening to have it chopped into firewood while I was working.”
She didn’t deserve you, Rose thought. She could see, quite clearly in her minds’ eye, Peter wrestling the furniture into a hired van, dragging it up the stairs (he had to have had help, surely?), nearly killing himself to bring home something that had brought him joy, that he thought would bring equal joy to the woman he’d married. She couldn’t fathom the cold-heartedness necessary to kill that kind of love, to dismiss something so clearly cherished by a life partner. And to know that someone had done that to Peter...
She had returned her gaze to Peter’s hand, watching as her fingers worked the muscles there. She could feel Peter’s eyes on her, and she bit her lip as she concentrated on not looking up, on not blushing.
“There was never an issue of her taking the furniture with her when she left; she’d hated it from the day I brought it home. I think I might have been more relieved about that, than about anything else in that mess.”
Rose brought his hand to her mouth, kissing his palm before returning it to his lap. “I think the furniture’s lovely,” she finally offered softly.
“I…it means a lot to me, the bed. I don’t know why-it just does. And then we were in the room that night, and you told me how much you liked it; how much you liked something that was important to me…and…” He shrugged. “Well, if you ever needed to know-complimenting my bed is a sure way to get me into it.”
The awkward humour was back, and she smiled. “I’ll bear that in mind, should the need arise.”
She looked around the room once more, commenting on the old hutch; he replied with a lengthy explanation of its history. It helped to move the conversation onto more neutral ground, and they spent the next couple of hours simply talking with one another, Peter periodically moving to add a log to the fire in the fireplace. Their conversation was only interrupted by the growl of Rose’s stomach, and they briefly moved to the (still cold) kitchen so Peter could make a light supper.
They had dinner in the dining room, the firelight providing the bulk of the light as the sun finally began to set. The fire was beginning to die by the time they finished, and Peter stood with a resigned sigh. “May as well bank that down for the night; care to move next door?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
She cleared the plates as he covered the coals with ash, running water in the sink to wash up after dinner-the result of their agreeing to a simple rule in the first month of their relationship, that the cook would never have to do the dishes. As she washed the plates, she heard Peter’s footsteps on the stairs; she hoped he was seeing to the fireplace in the bedroom, and felt a nervous flutter in her stomach at the thought of sleeping with him. She slept so much better when he was there next to her, and loved losing herself in his embrace as she drifted off to sleep. But tonight, after their first real row, she wondered: Would it be awkward? Uncomfortable?
She shook her head, returning her focus to the tepid water running over the silverware; they’d cross that bridge when they came to it. Together.
By the time she finished the dishes and moved to the sitting room, Peter was standing in front of the bookcase. He’d turned on the two lamps in the room, had added some more wood to the fireplace, and she felt herself relax as the atmosphere washed over her.
It really was like something out of a novel.
He selected a book and moved to sit on the sofa; he looked at her, expectantly, and she walked over to join him.
“I suppose you’ll tell me you don’t bite,” she said as she settled next to him.
“You know me better than that, I should think. But tonight? No, not at all.”
There was a moment of supreme awkwardness as they stared at each other. Normally, if Peter was reading to her, she would lay back against his chest, one of his arms wrapped around her as the other held the book. Tonight…what once seemed so natural suddenly loomed as A Big Thing.
She wasn’t up for making love to him-not yet, not so soon after the intensity of the afternoon-but she was certainly up for leaning against him, re-learning how to be comfortable in his embrace. She turned, checking him with her hip. “Budge over-there’s two of us here.”
His smile was brilliant, and she felt her heart flutter. He shifted, reclining into the corner of the couch; she slowly leaned back against him, sighing as he brought an arm around her.
“What’re you reading tonight?” she asked, weariness suddenly stealing over her.
“It’s a surprise. Now close your eyes, or I’ll not read to you at all.”
She smiled, closing her eyes as he requested. She felt his arms move, heard the rustle of paper as he leafed through the book to the first page. A hand came to rest over her stomach and she felt him brush a light kiss across her hair before he started, “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife..."