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i.
Ellie resists the urge to open the book until she gets home.
Its thick leather spine yields easily; it’s been read often, it seems, and well. There’s something pleasing about the way the pages smell, something familiar and comforting.
She wishes she’d thought to pay more attention to the books in Ramsey’s office. It’s normally the first thing she looks at in someone’s house; a good way to get a read on a person, no pun intended. She’d only scanned the first few volumes at eye-level, all of which were about famous military campaigns and historical figures, before cataloguing him firmly in her mind as the boring sort of man who only likes to read about war, even when he happens to be living one.
He, by contrast, had not overlooked her bookshelves. She’d been surprised to learn he’d given thought to what she might read, and decided she must be a lover of poetry. He isn’t wrong. She wasn’t lying to Matthew Winthrop when she called poetry a kind of magic.
She pictures Ramsey sitting upstairs in his grand house, lounging before the fireplace in shirt-sleeves and stocking-feet, glaring at a volume of Keats or Browning.
It makes her smile: the major is, very possibly, the least poetic man she’s ever met. If he does have feelings, she’s certain they aren’t the sort that express themselves in iambic pentameter.
All the same, she reflects, it was nice of him to give her a gift at all. She’d gone to meet him, expecting to be thanked for her service and dismissed, but instead he’d left the door open for a continuation of their working relationship.
Gods and Heroes is a cracking good read, too. She props it up on her kitchen table while she has her tea; when it gets too dark, she carries it across to the main house to curl up under a blanket by the grate in the parlour, conserving light as well as heat, reading to the steady tick of Nacy’s knitting needles.
She even takes the book to bed with her. She’s sure Ramsey would have some dry, cutting comment to make about that, which is why it’s a good thing he will never know.
(She very deliberately does not think about soft leather sofas in dimly-lit studies as she slides between the cold, stiff sheets.)
It’s while she is propping the book up on her pillow that she discovers the engraved bookplate: a fearsome griffin, jealously hoarding books, at the centre of a nest of elaborate flourishes. Ex Libris, G.J. Ramsey.
Someone has used a fountain pen to decisively strike out the major’s name and write underneath, in a bold, yet precise hand: Electra McDonnell.
There’s no inscription, nor had she expected there would be. She’s surprised he went so far as to write her name. He’d probably only done it to be sure she wouldn’t be accused of stealing the book from his collection. It undoubtedly cost more than any of the ones on her shelves.
This reminder that he still thinks of her as a thief, first and foremost, hurts more than she expects.
Later, she will fall asleep wondering what the J stands for.
ii.
Ramsey is very lucky. He knows this. There are men who have been invalided out for taking one bullet, never mind four. He’s still got the use of his arm—or will have, once his shoulder has healed—and has improved his understanding of how and where to aim a pistol for maximum effect. Even at point-blank range, his would-be killers had been remarkably sloppy.
Not only has he been allowed to keep his job, but he’s been given time to recover at home. He can continue to handle the administrative side of things in relative comfort, and Colonel Radburn will keep an eye on his active operations until he’s ready to resume the role fully.
He knows he should be grateful, on so many levels, but he’s used to being active, physically and mentally, and now he is neither. It hurts to stand, it hurts to sit, it hurts to lie still. His shoulder throbs when the weather changes, and his ribs itch infernally. His appetite has all but disappeared. He can’t recall the last time he slept without being jolted awake, either by nightmares or by his own unguarded movements.
Morphine makes him slow and stupid; boredom and pain and lack of sleep make him fractious. He opts for the latter. The work must come before all else.
He wants to take a hatchet to the hall clock. The tap of every raindrop on the window is an assault on his nerves. He feels as though he can hear the house settling.
Downstairs, the front door opens, and there’s the faint but distinct sound of feminine conversation. Miss Brown, and another voice, too low to recognize.
A moment later, footsteps on the stairs.
At the sound of the knock, Ramsey pushes himself to his feet, ignoring the bright flare of pain across his sternum. “Enter.”
“Good morning, Major. I’m sorry to disturb you—”
“Who was at the door just now?” he demands. He doesn’t have the energy for pleasantries or apologies.
“Miss McDonnell.” If Miss Brown thinks anything about it, she does him the courtesy of keeping it off her face.
He returns the courtesy with a brief nod that gives nothing away.
He feels a number of things, all at once, but foremost among them is relief—relief that this latest in a parade of uninvited guests didn’t try to bluff or barge her way in. He’s only just managed to get rid of his mother and his sisters, who’d descended on him in a concerned flock the moment he was out of hospital, despite his protests. Even Jocelyn had stopped by, with an extravagant bouquet of flowers and a deliberately non-specific offer of support.
He doesn’t want to be tenderly nursed back to health, or delicately pitied, or lovingly criticized for not eating or sleeping enough. He doesn’t want anyone seeing him in his current state, least of all Electra McDonnell.
Miss Brown, at least, doesn’t fuss. Every morning, provided the lines are working, she telephones up to receive her orders for the day. She delivers paperwork for his signature, when it’s called for—and turns her back as he grits his way through the effort of writing his name.
The most they’ve discussed his less-than-ideal state of health is when he’d cracked a joke, so dry it was brittle, about hoping she was enjoying her holiday.
“I told her you weren’t taking any meetings at present, but she said she only wanted to drop this off.” She brandishes a brown paper packet, rectangular in shape, tied with twine.
He gestures to the table with his good hand. “Leave it there. Did she—” No. Intolerable. He will not put Miss Brown or anyone else in the middle of this. “Never mind. That’s all.”
Miss Brown seems to hesitate, then adds, “She said she hoped you were feeling better.”
As if they were barely more than strangers. It was the way he’d insisted things must be, so he ought to be satisfied that she’s sticking to it.
Nothing about his present situation is satisfactory.
He nods. “Thank you, Miss Brown.”
Alone, he grapples with the twine one-handed, finally resorting to tucking the parcel beneath his chin. It’s undignified, but efficient.
The moment he plucks the knot loose, the paper gives way and a folded note flies out, fluttering to the floor.
He’s glad Miss Brown isn’t there, because he utters a string of words not fit for polite company, and very nearly hurls the package through the window.
Instead, he slaps it onto the table.
It’s a book. To be more precise, a battered copy of Maud, and Other Poems by Tennyson.
Not a bad edition, but it’s in poor shape. The binding is dry, crumbling, bits of leather flaking off the cover and sticking to his fingers. Someone with no knowledge of book anatomy has made a haphazard attempt to glue the block directly into the case; the spine cracks in protest as he eases it open.
Several of the pages are tea-stained, and there’s a distinct thumbprint in one margin that looks to be either grease or butter. This doesn’t bother him; he’s always thought that books were made to be enjoyed, and clearly, this one has been. But he isn’t quite certain why this particular ancient and apparently well-loved volume has found its way to him, via Miss McDonnell.
He supposes the answer must be in the note.
It’s a production to get down, grasp the note between two trembling fingers, then get back up again, but he does it, sweating and cursing a blue streak in both directions.
It’s a single, nearly translucent sheet of onionskin paper, complete with decorative red-and-blue airmail border across the top. Used for writing to her cousins, no doubt—or to Lacey, when he’d been on active service.
He imagines the type of correspondent she would be, under different circumstances: multi-page accounts of daily life, filled with charming, irreverent, and heartfelt observations, each one appended with a personal, affectionate postscript. Letters a man away from home would look forward to, and save to read over in those rare interstitial moments of quiet concentration afforded to him.
As things stand, she’s written him only a few short lines.
Dear Major Ramsey,
You gave me one of your books, so it’s only fair you should have one of mine.
Her handwriting is upright and orderly, with none of the hallmarks graphologists would use to detect a criminal mind: no openings at the bottoms of letters for thievery, or jagged peaks betraying violent instincts. He supposes finishing school and secretarial training would have cured her hand of any trace of personality. Which is a shame, really.
You had me dead to rights on Tennyson, I think because you’re secretly fond of him yourself.
He remembers now: the first time he’d been in her flat, they’d discussed books, and he’d told her he’d pegged her as a reader of poetry.
This one has The Charge of the Light Brigade, which should fit in nicely on your shelves.
He isn’t sure what she means by that—but then he recalls that she’s only seen the books in his study, most of which he’s had since Sandhurst. Military history and strategy, the art and science of warfare.
If that’s all she thinks he reads, it’s no wonder she thinks of him as an insufferable stuffed shirt.
Except… that isn’t entirely true. Not anymore. For all the good it does either of them now.
I hope your recovery is going well.
Electra McDonnell
There are volumes to be read in the words she doesn’t say. She has avoided any sort of declarative Yours, or, With affection; likewise, she hasn’t resorted to a vague old chestnut like All the best, or—God forbid—Sincerely.
Her name in full, giving nothing away. And no postscript.
He pages through the book. The Charge of the Light Brigade is there—a favourite of soldiers in hopeless circumstances the world over; he could recite that one by heart, he thinks—as well as the titular Maud. His eyes glide over the words without really catching on any of them, until:
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
The only reason his own heart is above ground and beating now is because of Electra McDonnell. Not for any maudlin, metaphysical reason, but because her quick action and stubborn refusal to follow his orders saved his life.
And he has repaid her by cutting her out of it entirely.
He pushes this thought aside and goes back to inspecting the book, starting with the flyleaf. Her name in pencil has been hastily crossed out, and below it, in ink, strong and sharp and forward-slanting: Gabriel Ramsey. It feels much more like her, somehow, than the tidy lettering in the note. She writes it better than he does, now.
He heaves himself up again and goes to the window. There’s no reason to expect to see anything: she’s never been one to dally, even when she doesn’t know where she’s going. She must be halfway home by now.
But somehow, he knows, even before he looks.
She’s standing on the sidewalk, in her heavy grey jumper and black wool skirt, and shoes that look soaked through and thin as cardboard. Spine straight, curls flying like a banner, arms defiantly crossed against the merciless north wind. Staring intently up at his bedroom window, as if trying to ascertain the layout of the house. Plotting to come back for the silverware, Miss McDonnell? She’d be outraged at the suggestion, of course—which is exactly why he’d make it.
If she were to turn her head fifteen degrees, to the next window, she would see him.
But she never does.
Instead, she about-faces and begins walking towards Sloane Square, an angry set to her shoulders.
‘Tis better to have loved and lost, Tennyson had once written.
What the hell did he know about it, thinks Ramsey, dragging the curtain closed.
iii.
“You already had it.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Ramsey agrees, despite the fact that he has no idea what she’s talking about. He’s been absorbed in the newspaper, his coffee cup perpetually halfway between the saucer and his lips, for the past ten minutes.
Ellie knows this because she’s been absorbed in watching him for the past ten minutes.
She’s had many opportunities to observe Gabriel Ramsey in dusky shadows, in half-lit rooms, in the velvet darkness of a blacked-out city street. Now, by the warm light of late morning, she admires him in full colour. Spun-gold hair, sleek and shining in the sun; vivid blue eyes, striking even in an already ridiculously handsome face; a splendid physique, sheathed in layers of deceptively bland khaki wool. Newspaper ink has gathered on his fingertips and been transferred to his forehead, as though he’s been trying to absorb the printed words directly into his brain through osmosis.
She isn’t sure whether his consuming interest in whatever he’s reading is professional or personal, but she’s finally managed to tear herself away by perusing his bookshelves. And in doing so, she has made a discovery.
She pulls down the offending volume and drops it on the desk in front of him: Maud, and Other Poems. An exquisite hand-bound edition, chocolate-brown with an elaborate gold-leaf filigree, pristine and unopened.
He looks up at her, clear-eyed, inscrutable. “They came as a set,” he says mildly. “The one you gave me is upstairs.”
“Well, you don’t need two copies.” Taking his fountain pen, she cracks the book open, finds the usual posher-than-posh bookplate, and scratches out his name.
“It was before I met you.” He takes a sip of his coffee, which is almost certainly cold by now. “And, technically, both copies are yours as well.”
Undeterred, she writes: Electra Ramsey.
“You’re getting better at writing it,” he observes.
It’s true. Six weeks ago, her signature on the marriage license had looked as though she’d done it holding a pen in each hand, her name and his standing awkwardly beside each other. Now, it’s almost natural.
“Are you going to go through the entire library staking your claim?” he inquires, politely.
She shrugs. “I might.”
He smiles—and it’s embarrassing, really, to have such a terrible crush on one’s own husband that his smiles make one’s heart flutter.
Now that everything has been resolved, she keeps waiting for her feelings for him to settle—to clarify into distinct, easily-discernible layers, like chemicals in a bottle—but it never happens. Friendship, sheer physical attraction, giddy infatuation, romantic longing, professional respect, and no small amount of gainstriving: all of it has emulsified into something impossible to name, except to call it love.
With the catlike quickness that still occasionally surprises her, he grasps her wrist, pulling her around the corner of the desk and toward him. “I can think of more productive ways to spend your time,” he says in a low voice, taking hold of her hip.
“Productive?” She means it to be coy, but his hand is warm through the light summer fabric of her dress, and it’s impossible to keep the eager note out of her voice.
“Ultimately.” He eases both hands around to the small of her back, his eyes never leaving her face. “One would assume.”
“Not something I can manage on my own,” she points out, quite sensibly.
Smoothly, he tips her into his lap and kisses her. He applies himself to it with such skill that she doesn’t even mind the faint taste of coffee.
There’s an exquisite restraint in his touch—it makes her blood rise, makes her want to see how far she can push him. She knows it’s futile: he’s far too aware of his surroundings. He won’t allow either of them to get carried away when there’s even the slightest chance someone might walk in.
But if they are a little impulsive, they can’t be blamed for it, not really. Their planned honeymoon had been all too short—only to be cut even shorter when a new piece of intelligence had surfaced, and he had been recalled to London on the third day of his leave.
By Ellie’s reckoning, the government cheated them out of their scheduled and approved time away together; she feels entirely justified in stealing that time back during his regular working hours, in unscheduled, unapproved increments.
For someone who lives by the book as much as he does, Gabriel has been surprisingly amenable to this line of reasoning.
She hooks a finger into his collar and undoes the button at his throat, slipping a hand inside his shirt, pressing kisses along the side of his neck. She has an irrational fondness—cemented into place by several evenings of thorough exploration in the early stages of their courtship—for the underside of his jaw; the strange, pleasing contrast of soft skin and sandpapery stubble, and the spiced warmth of his shaving soap.
He catches hold of her chin, tilting it so that his lips brush her ear. “Go upstairs,” he whispers—brisk and businesslike, as though they’re in the middle of a covert operation and he’s giving her instructions. “If anyone asks, tell them you didn’t sleep well and you’re going to take a nap. Don’t overplay it, or Betts will fuss and try to bring you tea in bed.” He sounds as though he is speaking from experience, and it’s all she can do to keep from laughing.
“And what will you do, Major?” She lets her fingers play over the back of his neck.
“I’ll stay here and make a couple of telephone calls, so that it doesn’t seem quite as obvious when I go up after you.”
She feels herself flush, her skin prickling all over, heat pooling in the pit of her stomach. “I think you’re just trying to be rid of me so you can read the paper in peace,” she says, feigning indignation.
And then, because she can, she licks her thumb and rubs the inky smudge from his forehead.
He submits patiently to her ministrations, one corner of his mouth ticking up.
When she’s finished, he says, “Off you go, Mrs. Ramsey,” and sets her on her feet. He picks up the book and swats her lightly on the backside with it before putting it in her hands.
“Shall I bring this along?” she asks, mischievously. “Are we going to read poetry to one another?”
“No,” he says firmly. “And if you need to bring a book, then clearly I haven’t been doing a proper job of it. We will remedy that.”
And the way he looks at her isn’t very poetic, but it’s a kind of magic all its own.