More Wimseyfic, same AU as
The Other Way Round In which Lord Peter says goodbye to his ever-loving family.
Lord Peter took the train to Duke's Denver the next day, a Saturday. The journey was long and tedious, the train stopping frequently in the middle of nowhere for no obvious reason. As the hot countryside unspooled before him, his thoughts returned unwillingly, inevitably, to the final argument with Menzies and Nelson, and to his reluctant conclusion that even by going to the very top, he would not be able to dissuade them from carrying out this reckless mission. That was the point where he had turned his energies to making the best of a bad situation, eventually feeling compelled to volunteer himself - a man without dependents - to save others from having to participate. But this decision still weighed on him, not so much because he feared what he saw as certain death, but because given what he knew, if he were to fall alive into enemy hands, it could cost untold lives in addition to his own.
Should he have sacrificed his honour and stayed the course? Perhaps. Perhaps he was too addicted to the grand gesture, while this business of politics set up a constant collision course between different sets of principles, and one had necessarily to decide to sacrifice one in favour of another.
Almost more worrying was the fact that, despite knowing what he knew, none of the mandarins had attempted to dissuade him from going. By God, but if England won this war, it would be despite itself, despite a fractured patchwork of overlapping institutions and personalities, each constantly fighting with the other for precedence, each seemingly unable to look beyond its own narrow short-term interests to comprehend a bigger purpose.
He was all out of joint with the world, and no way to set it right, not the ideal mood in which to say one’s last goodbyes. In the last war, he had made this journey, many times, to say these same goodbyes. But then it had been different. The confidence of youth in its own invincibility had buoyed him up - he had come to say au revoir, but not adios. Now, age and experience weighed him down, and he longed for a little of that youthful insouciance.
Wimsey’s mood was not improved by arriving, three hours later than planned, into the middle of a minor domestic crisis.
The Duchess of Denver, recently returned from a week-long speaking tour of the provinces on behalf of the Ministry of Instruction and Morale, had discovered that almost a month’s worth of sugar rations for the household had disappeared in her absence. The cook, outraged at the Duchess’s accusation of theft, had tendered her resignation. The Duke then brought a storm down upon his head by admitting sheepishly that he had taken advantage of his wife's absence to order a succession of sweet puddings. He did not improve matters with the tentative suggestion that given his efforts to have the estate contribute to the production of food for the war effort, it should be possible to make up the missing ration through some unorthodox means. His wife met this proposal with frosty hostility, implying that making use of the black market was the worst kind of treason, though she did persuade the cook to return, by dint of an abject apology, and more to the point, by raising her wages.
In the early days of the War, the West Wing had served as the billet for a boys' school, but now the Hall had been taken over in its entirety by the Army, and the family had moved into the Dower house for the duration. These accommodations were somewhat cramped, especially with the presence of a number of guests. Mr and Mrs Pettigrew-Robinson were staying for a rest-cure. Mrs Pettigrew-Robinson had been suffering from acute nervous trouble for some years, exacerbated when their home in Putney suffered a direct hit in the spring of the previous year. In an unguarded moment, the Duke had invited them to stay for as long as they liked, which they promptly proceeded to do. The easygoing Colonel Marchbanks who had come for a spot of fishing would under normal circumstances have been a welcome addition to the party. But his previous anti-Soviet stance was an unexpected source of friction with the Duchess, who in a remarkable volte-face, was taking a strong line in support of this recent ally.
Meanwhile, her daughter-in-law had fallen into a depression after her recent confinement, and was refusing to leave her room. This created (at least in the eyes of her mother-in-law) all kinds of unnecessary work for the two remaining housemaids. The infant who was the cause of all this trouble had a lusty pair of lungs, and appeared to be suffering from colic, causing his inexperienced nursemaid to dissolve into tears and threaten to leave to become a land girl. As a result, none of the members of the resident party had had much sleep.
Only the Dowager Duchess and Lady Mary Parker looked on with some bemusement, perhaps assisted by the fact that their bedrooms were those most distant from the nursery.
"I do hope, Peter, that you’ve brought your ration book," said the Duchess, with more than her usual acidity, as they sat down to dinner.
"I’m sorry, Helen, old thing, I didn’t realize you needed it. But I promise I won’t impose on you for more than one night, and Bunter sends a basket of provisions with his compliments."
"No doubt improperly obtained," sniffed the Duchess.
"Oh, you know Bunter, he’s more proper than any of us," replied Lord Peter. "In 25 years, I've never known Bunter to do anything illegal. Unless I asked him to, of course."
"Amazin' fellow, that Bunter," said the Duke. "I'll wager Peter never has to worry about putting a square meal in front of his guests."
"Gerald!" began the Duchess, wrathfully.
"Peter never had a sweet tooth," interjected the Dowager Duchess quickly, "not even as a boy. I must say, Helen, you really ought to be able to control Gerald a bit better. He used to be quite civilized. But I do feel bad for the poor people in Town. At least here in the countryside, we can get fresh food without having to queue for it. Peter, dear, you don’t look like you’ve been eating properly!"
"Too busy serving his country, eh?" added Colonel Marchbanks, eager to smooth over a rough patch in the conversation. "We don't need details, my boy, but we know somebody has to do it, and we're damned grateful to you, damned grateful. Served in three wars myself, and would serve in this one too, if they would have me. Between you and Jerry, nobody can say the Wimseys don't do their duty. How is young Jerry, by the way?"
"Yes, Peter, how is Jerry?" asked Helen, rather pointedly.
"I'm sure you've seen him more recently than I have," replied Lord Peter.
"That boy pays more attention to you than to his own parents," said the Duke with some heat. "And I don't mind saying to your face that you're a pernicious influence."
"Saint-George is a grown man. I don't see how he can possibly be my responsibility."
Helen waved this comment away.
"Don't be ridiculous, Peter," she said. "And can you please talk your brother about this notion of his to hand the estate over to the National Trust. I know all about death duties, but he seems determined to take the roof from over our heads before he's even dead." She looked beadily at her husband. "It's pointless to deny it, Gerald, you invited that nasty little man to look the place over again while I was away. What did he say about the furniture this time? Was it "quite good" enough for him?"
The Duke did not look the slightest bit discomfited by this accusation.
"He particularly admired the panelling in the library. I made that helpful Irish officer take the drapes down and show him around. Of course what he really wants is the Dower House, but I told him he'd have to leave us some place to live, what?"
After the meal, the Duke’s adherence to the masculine ritual of port and cigars having fallen victim to the war, the entire party repaired to the drawing-room to listen to the 9 o’clock news.
"For God’s sake, I hope it’s not that Pickles fellow again, grumbled the Duke. Don’t understand a word he says."
The announcer reported that the German Army was pushing on towards Stalingrad unimpeded.
"The Russians have never yet won a war against a first-class power, and why should they start now," said the Colonel. "Don't know why Winston jumped into bed with those Bolshies. I hope it doesn't turn out to be the death of us."
"How can you talk that way about our allies?" asked the Duchess, frostily. "Anyone would think you wanted us to lose the war."
"No offence meant, no offence," replied the Colonel hastily, fearful of dropping another conversational bomb.
At long last, the uncomfortable evening drew to a close, and Wimsey retired dog-tired, to what rest he could reasonably hope to get between the wails of his great-nephew, and the unceasing importunities of his own moral scruples.
When he came down to breakfast the next morning, his brother and sister-in-law had already left for church, none of the other members of the party had yet arisen, and the only person in the breakfast-room was Lady Mary, peacefully reading the Times and drinking a cup of tea.
She offered her cheek, and he bent to kiss it.
"Hullo, old girl, it’s been an age since I saw you."
"I know," she replied, "Though I’m not the one who disappears mysteriously to unknown destinations for months on end."
He grimaced in response. He had spent most of the past three years shuttling between Milton Keynes and London, but if his family wanted to believe otherwise, it was better not to disabuse them.
"How is Charles? We never seem to manage to be in Town at the same time."
"Apallingly busy, poor man. The Force is completely short-handed. He was able to come down last weekend, and the children were ecstatic. He misses you. He says crime is not what it was. No finesse at all these days."
Lord Peter helped himself to toast and a cup of tea. There was neither butter nor margarine. But the tea at least was pukka, for the Duchess had with perhaps more luck than forethought laid in several cases shortly before the war began.
"And how are you holding up? I’m sorry, old thing, leaving you to handle the zoo on your own."
"It has its entertaining moments, you’d be surprised. It all depends on how one approaches it. Helen --"
"Gosh, Helen was in historic form last night. I really should show my face a little more often. But I’m welcomed with such open arms every time I come."
Mary laughed. "Oh you know better than to take Helen seriously. She’s actually been enjoying herself traveling around for the Ministry, and poor Gerald has been feeling unwonted spousal neglect. But these past weeks, what with Gillian, and the baby… and then some little bird told her that Jerry had leave after the baby was born, but he chose not to tell anyone and spent it in London with the-lord-knows-who…"
Wimsey rolled his eyes.
"Oh dear, no. So that’s why…"
"Yes. Though I've no idea why she thinks you are responsible. Anyhow, now her sympathies are divided. She’s always resented Gillian, I think - disliked the process, though she formally had to approve of the outcome. But now she sees herself in her daughter-in-law. And Gerald didn’t help matters by laughing like a drain when she told him, even though as you see, he was quite as angry as she was... Actually, that’s one of the things that makes this place easier to take. I’m reminded every day how happy I am to be married to a man who isn’t a bit like my brother."
"Oh, Gerald’s not a bad old stick," said Peter.
"As long as you’re not a woman, he’s not," she replied, a little tartly.
"I suppose," he answered equably.
He paused a little before asking: "And Mother? She seemed a little more meandering than usual last night."
"Oh, Peter, she worries about you. You always were her white-headed boy. She thinks something’s up. She says you can’t fool a mother’s intuition."
He waved a hand in disclaimer.
"Something’s always up. I’ll talk with her later. I say, should you like to join me for a turn in the park? I could use the exercise."
"Of course, I'd love to. And if we get bored, you can help me pick raspberries. Just let me go and change my shoes, and I’ll meet you downstairs in ten minutes."
They skirted the terrace, and set off on a path that led through some trees, past an open area of ground being used by the Army as a firing range.
"Is Gerald serious about the National Trust, or is he just doing it to annoy Helen?" asked Peter.
"I think he's serious," replied his sister. "I actually liked the man who came out to see the place, and so did Mother. An awful snob, and the most scurrilous gossip I ever met, but he has a real feel for period stuff. And honestly, I don't see that there's really much choice in the matter."
"I know, he replied gloomily. That's the devil of it. By rights, I shouldn't give a toss, but I'll be sorry to see the old place go."
"You're such a fraud, Peter," she said, smiling. "You pretend to be all cosmopolitan and sophisticated, but when it comes down to it, you're a reactionary, just like Gerald."
He came to halt at a bridge over a small stream, and turned to lean on the railing, watching the sluggish water below.
"Polly, do you have any regrets about life?"
At this rather surprising turn in the conversation, she looked quickly at him to gauge his mood, and then deciding that he was serious, turned back to the water.
"Well," she answered. "There are many things I might have done with my life that I didn’t have the opportunity to do. Oxford, for example. Father wouldn't hear about it, and Mother never stood up to him, and then there was the war, and then it was too late."
"I never knew you wanted to go to Oxford," he said, surprised.
"Well, you never asked," she replied, and then continued, a little more gently. "I might not have been good enough anyway, though of course nobody ever said that of a man. But I’m resolved that my daughter, at least, will have the opportunity to go, if she wants to."
"Very proper too," he interjected, and made a sign for her to go on.
"Apart from that… I made mistakes, but then we all do. Lord, when I think about George - you remember George Goyles? I ran into him last year, and he told me that the only thing worse than being an aristocrat was being a petit-bourgeois, and I had managed to be both…"
"That fellow always did speak his mind," interjected her brother with a sly grin.
"But I muddled through. I married a good man. Charles may be lacking in imagination, but he's as decent as they come."
Peter nodded his assent.
"I’ve never been made a fool of the way Helen’s been made a fool of… Then there are the children, who’ve been a lot more fun than I ever imagined when I was elbow-deep in dirty napkins. Charles wanted to send small Peter to prep school years ago, you know. We fought over it. Probably you don't want to know that, but you did ask. He wanted him to have all the opportunities that he never had. But I told him no. I remembered you crying for Mother every night before term started, and I reminded him that Gerald did exactly the same thing with Saint-George, and look how well that turned out. And now you see, Peterkin’s doing very well, and Charles is happy we waited until he was older… Though one never knows now, of course, whether any of this is going to matter, and whether we’re going to live to see the end of it."
She turned her back to the water to look at him.
"What about you?" she asked curiously.
"Oh, I don’t know," he replied uneasily. "Sometimes I wonder." He paused, and then began again. "I wonder whether I shouldn’t have done something more… important." He broke off. "-- God what an egotistical thing to say. No, I mean, I kept busy since the war, with detecting, then the Foreign Office. But it was always dabbling - not like Charles. I sometimes wonder whether, if I had - concentrated instead on one thing, whether I could have helped, in some small way, to… to avoid all this." He waved his arm in a general way, not to indicate the peaceful countryside around them, but the conflagration taking place across the sea.
"You always did have an overdeveloped sense of responsibility," she said, smiling. "You don’t seriously think that all this is your fault?"
He grinned self-deprecatingly.
"Well at least you didn’t say that I have an overdeveloped sense of my own importance."
Then she began again, a little uncertainly.
"But do you ever regret other things. Like not… settling down?"
"If you mean like Gerald, no, I don’t regret it," he replied with a touch of humor. "But more seriously yes, it is something I think about sometimes --"
He paused again, thinking, not for the first time, if only I hadn’t been such an ass to Harriet, things might have worked out between us, and now I would be an indulgent husband and paterfamilias, basking in complacency. Though how then could I have done what I am about to do now?
"-- But more recently, I have come to have less confidence in my ability to pull off that kind of thing."
"What makes you say that?" she asked. Something in the tone of his voice alarmed her more than all of the previous unexpected confidences, and she was reminded of her mother's concern.
"Polly," he said, hunched over the railing deliberately not looking at her. "Something’s come up. It’s a damned mess, but I couldn’t say no, and I won't be coming back. You have to take care of Mother."
"I’m sure you’re overreacting," she said, uncertainly.
"No, not this time. This is pretty much a dead cert. But I’ve left my affairs in order. Murbles has instructions, and I’ll leave a suitcase with papers down here just in case. I’ve made you the executor. His voice took on a note of appeal. You’ll take care of things for me, won’t you, Polly?"
"Of course I will, Peter. Though I hope it won’t be necessary."
"Thank you," he replied.
He took her arm, and they continued along the path beside the stream.
"Do you remember when you were five, and I wanted you to be Ophelia so I could be Hamlet? And I never thought about the fact that you couldn't swim…"
"It's probably just as well I don't remember," she answered. "I hope Mother gave you a good whipping, for you certainly deserved it."
And they continued on in comfortable reminiscence.