Work Text:
March 19, 1942
Darrowby, Yorkshire – Skeldale House
“Tristan!”
Tristan Farnon is rudely awoken by his older brother’s sonorous bellow, followed by his bedroom door slamming open.
Jerking his head off the pillow and squinting muzzily at the form of his brother on the threshold, Tristan grimaces and collapses back onto the bed. “Go ‘way, Siegfried.”
“Tristan Brian Farnon!” His brother’s voice is too loud, much too close, and the thud of his feet on the floor as he approaches sounds like a warning drum.
“This is my first day of leave in two weeks,” Tristan mutters rebelliously from under the covers. “Even the Lord Almighty gave Himself one day of rest, Siegfried, so I don’t understand why I can’t—”
“On your feet, man!” Siegfried’s voice contains enough remnants of a drill instructor’s tone to force Tristan into an upright position from habit alone, and he scrubs at his eyes and blinks blearily in the morning light. It can’t be more than half past eight, he thinks, reaching blindly for the clock next to his bed.
When he finally does look up, he does a double take. “Are you wearing an apron?”
Siegfried is in fact wearing an apron, smudged with various stains. His hair is in disarray, and there is a manic gleam in his eye that Tristan really doesn’t like. “Downstairs, now.”
Tristan’s other senses have been at work while the rest of him struggled to wake up, and he sniffs the air, his brow creasing. “Is something burning?”
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Tristan pokes hesitantly at the round pile of charred something that rests forlornly on the kitchen table, nestled in a slightly scorched pan. “Were you trying to create a new form of fuel?”
The sound of Siegfried grinding his teeth next to him is audible. “It's meant to be a cake.” At Tristan’s skeptical look, he blusters, “I had only left for a moment to answer the door—I can’t ignore our patients all day, you know.”
“I’m sorry, Siegfried,” Helen mourns from Tristan's other side. “I were meant to be watching it, too, but then Jimmy fussed and I…”
“It’s all right, my dear,” Siegfried sighs wearily. “But Mrs. Hall will be back shortly, and I’m not sure how we’re going to create a cake out of thin air.”
“Where is Mrs. H, anyway?” Tristan asks, looking around the kitchen. The smell of something burning would have been akin to an air raid siren to the woman, who should have chased them all away from the stove by now, muttering about them being “daft creatures” all the while.
Helen looks abashed and gestures to Jess and Dash, who are lurking hopefully under the table, eyeing the remains of the cake. “I ‘accidentally’ knocked the butter to the floor this morning while trying to feed Jimmy, and since that were the last of it, except for what I helped Siegfried set aside, Audrey had to go get more. I told her that Jenny had extra, and James had to go see to a few lambs at Heston, so he took her in the Vauxhall.”
Tristan stares at her. This was planned. This took coordination and a distraction, and the stockpiling of ration coupons away from Mrs. Hall’s careful accounting. He’s seen operations executed with less planning during his time in Cairo.
“And the reason for all this subterfuge is…” he wonders, gesturing to ruins of the cake.
“It’s Audrey’s birthday today,” Helen says softly. “With there being no news of Edward…”
Siegfried clears his throat. “She deserves a celebration, even if only for a day. Now,” he says, snapping back into the older brother that Tristan knows so well, “we need to dispose of the evidence. We can’t help that we won’t have a cake, but we do need to go up to Pumphrey Manor before Mrs. Hall and James return.”
Tristan shrugs and gestures to the dogs, who are both nosing at the edge of the table, tails wagging. “They could dispose of the evidence.”
Helen gives a startled huff of laughter, but the look Siegfried gives him could chill the sun. “Then you will be responsible for cleaning up the mess they make later, no matter which end it comes out of.”
“On second thought,” Tristan amends, seizing the cake pan and immediately regretting it as it scorches his fingers, “why don’t I bury this out in the compost?” Readjusting his grip on the pan so that his aching fingertips are partially covered by a towel, he carries the pan out to the yard and dumps the charcoal-cake into the compost pile before returning the pan to the kitchen and scrubbing the worst of it out. Hopefully Mrs. H won’t notice when she returns.
When he finishes scrubbing, Helen is back in the kitchen, Jimmy on her hip.
“Why are we going to Pumphrey Manor?” Tristan wonders as he trails her out into the yard and holds Jimmy while she gets seated in the Rover, before passing him over.
“She has a gift for Audrey,” Helen says serenely, settling Jimmy next to her and turning a mischievous grin up to him. “I also know how well Siegfried can cook, so I rang her a few days ago and asked that if Jenny brought her the sugar and butter and flour rations I saved up, could her cook bake the cake? She said she was happy to, for Audrey.”
“Helen, you treasure,” Tristan says admiringly, hopping into the passenger seat as Siegfried comes grumbling out of the house, jamming his hat on his head.
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Tristan has forgotten how expansive the grounds of Pumphrey Manor are. He lifts his face to the breeze as they pass through the gates, past the manor proper, and deeper into the estate grounds, to the cottage that Mrs. Pumphrey is currently living in while the manor is being used as a hospital.
The “pokey” cottage that Mrs. Pumphrey and Tricki have relocated to is larger than Skeldale House, made of stone that has darkened to a yellowish-brown with age. Tristan catches the bright reflection of sun off a large pane of glass, and realizes the cottage has a conservatory attached.
The dusky rose-painted door opens as they park and approach, and the maid shows them in, where they move from sitting room to parlor to the kitchen, the sweet scent of baked goods and honey beckoning them in deeper into the house.
Marjorie Pumphrey is stepping into the kitchen from the conservatory as they enter, pulling off her gardening gloves and smiling at them. “Tricki!” She calls in delight to the Pekingese, who is reclining on one of his usual decadent pillows in the middle of the kitchen table, panting softly and snorting. “Look who is it! Uncle Farnon, and Uncle Tristan, and Helen, and even little Jimmy have come to see us! Isn’t this delightful? Aren’t you excited for Audrey? Tricki helped pick out the gifts himself,” she confides in a low tone, gesturing towards the objects on the other side of the table. “He has the most exquisite taste.”
A bouquet of flowers waits on the table, wrapped in newsprint, blooms facing outward. Beside them is a large box wrapped in paper and tied with twine, and beside that is a perfectly baked cake, covered in a layer of fluffy, creamy white frosting, and crowned with purple-and-white flowers.
“Oh!” Helen gasps in delight, stepping forward to gaze in wonder at the cake, drinking in the sight of its pale decadence. In her arms, Jimmy babbles and reaches down, straining for it. “Mrs. Pumphrey, where did you find all the eggs, and the sugar?”
Mrs. Pumphrey smiles at her, and she is too much of a lady for Tristan to call the expression smug. “I like to help out at the Manor, you know, and the doctors insist on giving me something for my assistance.” She gives a light laugh. “I think they’re afraid I’ll ask for my home back and turn them out in the cold. I’m happy to take their payment in some of the sugar and dearer goods that come to the Manor. My cook Winters did the rest, after I brought her the supplies.”
“Mrs. Pumphrey, you sly fox,” Tristan says admiringly, and the older woman waves his compliment away, eyes gleaming.
As Helen wanders out into the conservatory, distracting Jimmy with the burst of bright colors, Mrs. Pumphrey steps up to the table and plucks an errant leaf from the bouquet before nudging one pale pink flower and then another back into some perfect alignment only she can see. The flowers are nearly the size of Tristan’s fist, the light pink of a dawn sky's first moments, comprised of little petals that daintily overlap each other, giving the appearance of a kaleidoscope.
Mrs. Pumphrey gives Siegfried a long, considering look as she twitches another flower into place. “It’s been a long time since you’ve asked me for flowers, Mr. Farnon.”
Tristan freezes.
Faintly, he sees the pink rising to his brother’s cheeks, seeing the tips of his ears starting to color, and as from afar, he hears Mrs. Pumphrey continue, “I’m glad I had Francoise bring over some of my camellia trees when we left the Manor. I was so worried they would be too shocked by the move, but like us, they’re doing their bit—and lucky for you, too. This is one of my first set of blooms; I just cut them this morning.”
“They are beautiful, Mrs. Pumphrey,” he distantly hears Siegfried say, but he’s already striding into the conservatory, his head pounding.
He asked Mrs. Pumphrey for flowers.
He finds Helen standing under a tall, thin tree, letting Jimmy reach up and babble as he tugs on one branch, then another, then crowing when his efforts result in a slight shower of loose petals cascading around them. The little boy grasps for them with chubby fists, but doesn’t fuss when he doesn’t succeed in catching them.
“Helen,” Tristan says, and the smile she turns to him fades as she sees the seriousness of his expression. “What is going on between my brother and Mrs. H?”
Her brow furrows in confusion, but she matches his lowered tone when she replies. “Nowt that I know. It’s her birthday, and since Edward…”
“Edward’s been missing since Singapore, I know.” Tristan shakes his head. “Helen, he asked Mrs. Pumphrey for flowers, for her.”
“Did he?” Helen leans back a little to peer around Tristan at Siegfried, who is still chatting with Mrs. Pumphrey. She glances back at Tristan. “I thought the flowers were a gift from Mrs. Pumphrey. Does it matter if they’re from Siegfried?”
Tristan swallows hard. It might not mean anything. You were away; maybe something changed between them. “Before. Before, when it was a special occasion, Siegfried would drive up here and get some of those special, exotic flowers that only Mrs. Pumphrey has. He said the other flower sellers didn’t have what he wanted, not for—”
Evelyn.
Tristan swallows hard again, and even with Evelyn nine years gone, it’s hard to say the words. Siegfried's grief and self-imposed silences trickled down to him, and like his brother, he rarely mentions the first woman to occupy Skeldale House. Even a room away, he keeps his voice low. “The last time he asked Mrs. Pumphrey for hothouse flowers like this, it was Evelyn’s birthday.”
Helen’s eyes are wide as she gapes at him. “I didn’t know,” she whispers, as Jimmy coos and pulls at the petals that have gotten trapped in her hair. She gently detangles his fist from her hair and keeps her eyes on Tristan. “What does it mean?”
Tristan shakes his head, glancing over his shoulder. “I don’t know.”
“Tristan!” His brother’s voice makes him jump, and he spins around to see Siegfried beckoning him. Did he hear anything? He and Helen have been over against the far glass wall of the conservatory, but Tristan’s not sure Siegfried doesn’t have the hearing of a bat sometimes.
But there’s no condemnation or irritation in his brother’s expression, and Tristan hurries over, taking the box and the flowers as Siegfried carefully balances the covered cake with both hands, Helen bringing up the rear.
The ride back to Darrowby is quiet, other than the wind. Tristan sits with the flowers on his lap, their scent faintly tinged with almond. In the backseat of the Rover, Helen cradles the cake in one arm and a sleeping Jimmy in the other, the wrapped parcel on the seat beside her.
It isn’t until they are past the gates of Pumphrey Manor that Tristan finds his tongue.
“All of this for Mrs. H’s birthday, eh?” Is the first thing out of his mouth, and he inwardly winces.
Siegfried takes his eyes off the road long enough to fix his brother with a mildly disapproving, hawk-like stare. “Does she not deserve it?”
“No, no!” Tristan nearly trips over his tongue to protest, almost lifting his hands in surrender before remembering the flowers and stilling his movements, and Siegfried’s bristling subsides. “Mrs. H deserves everything, but I wasn’t expecting the flowers, and the cake, and the box.”
“That’s a gift from Mrs. Pumphrey,” Siegfried says. “It’s as much a mystery to me as it is to you.”
“Last year was difficult,” Siegfried continues, and Tristan knows that he’s referring to the tension at Christmas, when Edward’s fate was just as unknown then as it is now. “And now, with Edward…” he trails off with a sigh.
“Make the best of any cause for celebration?” Tristan offers.
Siegfried gives him a slight smile, but it dies almost immediately. “I just want to see her smile again,” he says, so softly that Tristan almost misses it.
“I think these will do the trick,” Tristan says, rustling the flowers on his lap in their newspaper.
“Careful with those,” Siegfried chides, sounding relieved to back on familiar ground. “I don’t want them to be stripped bare by your irresponsible handling before we get home.”
Tristan’s reply--a squawk of indignation--is lost in the sound of the wind and the gravelly purr of the engine.
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“…and I could tell from the way the cow was standing that there was something wrong with her left rear hoof…”
As the Vauxhall bounces over the roads towards Skeldale, away from Heston Grange, Audrey closes her eyes and lets James prattle on beside her in the driver’s seat. Lord, but I’m tired. We spent too long there.
It had all started with an odd morning, with the kettle boiling over the hob right as she looked away, and then Helen had been feeding Jimmy and accidentally knocked the last of their butter off the table, into the waiting mouths of Jess and Dash before Audrey could get to it.
But Helen, the angel, had told her that Jenny had an extra ration of butter that Audrey could have instead of going to the shops, and so away she and James went.
Now it is later in the afternoon than Audrey likes—it will be almost dinner time by the time they get back, and dinner won’t cook itself. But James had multiple animals at Heston that needed seeing to, and Jenny had dragged Audrey over what seemed like every inch of the place, from house to barn to paddock and back again, showing her the new lambs, the blankets that she and Doris had knitted, and had shown off some of her riding skills as well.
Audrey hadn’t had the heart or the rudeness to step away or mention she had to be going, even as she checked her watch. Poor girl is probably missing Helen, and missing female company, she thinks.
As they pull into the yard next to Skeldale and park, Audrey looks over and frowns at the clump of people who are crowded around the front door. “What in the world,” she murmurs, letting herself out of the car and striding over.
“Mrs. Hall!” One woman calls, cradling a fawn-and-white Corgi in her arms. “What is the meaning of this, the vetinary practice being closed in the middle of the day?”
“I’m so sorry,” Audrey says automatically, ascending the steps as quickly as she can and unlocking the door. “If you’ll just wait here, I’ll see what’s keeping Mr. Farnon.”
There is a sign on the door, written in Siegfried’s hand—Surgery closed. Family occasion.—but Audrey brushes past that and allows the patients to enter the waiting area of the front hall.
“If you’ll just come this way,” she hears James saying to the first woman, the one with the Corgi, ushering her into the first practice room. “I’m sure my partner will be along shortly…”
Skeldale House is quiet around her as she peers up the stairs, tilting her head for any noise. There is the sound of footsteps, and then Helen is at the top of the stairs, peering down at her with something akin to alarm. “Audrey, you’re back! Early!”
The older woman eyes her. “Early? I’ve only spent most of the day with your sister; you should visit her more.”
Helen’s brown eyes are bright, and she looks like she’s hiding a smile. “Yes, I’ll do that. Ta, Audrey.”
Audrey nods once and strides towards the kitchen, searching for the erstwhile Farnon brothers. The dispensary is empty, as is the supply closet in the hall.
They must be in the kitchen.
“It’s nearly dinner time,” she calls as she strides towards the warm room, Jess and Dash rushing to greet her, swirling elatedly around her shins in a flurry of tongues and fur. “So why are you in here, daft beggars, when half the village is in the hall, looking for help?”
The rest of her admonishment die on her tongue as she steps into the kitchen, and taken aback, she stops in her tracks.
Siegfried and Tristan look up guiltily from where they are standing by the table and the stove, respectively, as if they’ve been caught breaking the law. Tristan, Audrey sees to her amusement, is in one of her aprons, and Siegfried has tied one of her pinnies around his waist. Tristan is stirring something in the stew pot the smells like it might resemble food, and Siegfried is cutting up a loaf of bread.
"I put the sign up!" Siegfried protests querulously, his voice rising.
She can’t help it, and a smile breaks across her face on the heels of a laugh. “What are you two doing?”
Then she spots the vase full of beautiful pink flowers in the middle of the table that definitely weren’t there when she left that morning, and she steps over to cup one of the blooms and bends down to inhale the scent. It smells slightly of almonds, and she hums appreciatively. “What are these?”
“Camellias,” Siegfried says quietly, his dark eyes on her, and Audrey feels heat climb into her neck and straightens, stepping back.
“Happy birthday, Mrs. H!” Tristan trumpets from his station at the stove, and Audrey shakes her head with a smile as he bounds over to give her a hug. He smells like soap and the faintest hint of ale, wrapped around whatever seasonings he’s been throwing in her stewpot for his concoction.
"All this is for me?" She wonders, belatedly remembering that why yes, it is her birthday. She had noticed the date when she woke that morning, but had quickly been distracted by the day's task, along with hunting through the morning's paper and listening to the radio bulletins, seeking and dreading any news from Singapore.
Tristan laughs gently. "Did you forget your own birthday, Mrs. H?"
"It weren't important," she protests, unable to articulate how it doesn't feel right, to celebrate when half her soul is missing, when she dreams every night of a dark jungle she's never seen, but can only imagine, and hears her son calling for her, fear in his voice.
Siegfried's voice is firm, and his gaze is just as steady. "It is always important."
“I should go see if the post has come,” she says, extracting herself from Tristan's embrace, and Siegfried blinks at that, a shadow of alarm flickering through his eyes.
“No need,” he assures her. “Helen will do that, won’t you?” He asks of the other woman who has come in behind Audrey, putting Jimmy down in his playpen.
“You don’t need to do that and look after Jimmy,” Audrey protests, feeling slightly out of place in her own kitchen, and Helen pats her arm as she slides past.
“It’s all right, Aud, I don’t mind.”
She’s back moments later with a bundle of letters and a small square package. Audrey reaches for it, but Siegfried gets there first, glancing at the letters before passing them over to her, and grunting in surprised satisfaction at the address on the small package.
“Ah, yes, I was waiting for this. Helen, could you please take this upstairs for me?”
Helen glances down, grins, and whisks the package away before Audrey can get a better glance at it.
“Well, I suppose I should assist James with the patients,” Siegfried sighs after he finishes slicing the loaf, untying the pinny and folding it carefully over the back of the chair, rolling down his shirtsleeves as he goes.
Audrey folds her arms and watches him leave. “And what I am meant to do, if I’m not meant to make dinner?”
“Please, Mrs. H, go sit down,” Tristan says encouragingly, nodding in the direction of the sitting room. When she hesitates, he gives her the impish smile she knows so well. “If something starts burning again, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”
She’s settling onto the couch with a book, Dash beside her, Jess at her feet, when his words sink in. Burning again?
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Tristan’s stew is surprisingly palatable, and though it’s not something Audrey would make for herself, she appreciates the effort.
“Thank you all,” she says, raising her glass at the end of the meal, after she has spent several minutes pressing the last crumbs off her plate the tines of her fork, desperate to get every bit of honey-and-sugar sweetness from the cake she had been shocked to see Helen bring out, covered in a sweet cream coating and garnished with small primroses. “It were a rare treat to sit with my feet up today.”
“To Mrs. H!” Tristan calls, raising his glass in answer, while Helen and James echo him.
“To our remarkable Mrs. Hall,” Siegfried says from his place at the head of the table. “Many happy returns, and for all you do.” His smile is soft as he raises his glass towards her, and Audrey dips her head in acknowledgement, warmth suffusing her face at the praise.
All too soon, she is pushing back her chair. “I suppose I should be getting to my rounds before curfew.”
“But Mrs. H,” Tristan protests, “we were going to go to the Drovers to get a drink in celebration. We can’t drink in your honor without you there!”
“I have to do my rounds,” Audrey says regretfully, and when Tristan starts to protest again, Siegfried’s voice quiets him.
“I spoke to Bosworth,” he says, and Audrey gapes at him. “He is doing the rounds tonight, to allow you time to celebrate.”
“Mr. Farnon…” Audrey says, half in amazement, half-reproach. He did that for me? Shaking her head, she gets to her feet and reaches for the dishes around her, meaning to begin clearing. “I suppose we should go before curfew,” she says, and is stopped by Tristan and James rising to their feet, taking the dishes from her.
“Go on, Mrs. H,” Tristan urges. “Go get ready.”
Get ready for what? All she has to do to get ready for a trip to the Drovers is take off her pinny and make sure her hair isn’t a mess.
“Mrs. Pumphrey sent a gift,” Helen explains, seeing her confusion. “I left it in your room.”
Slightly bewildered, Audrey allows herself to be ushered out of the dining room, and she climbs up the stairs in a haze, wondering at all the fuss, a smile curling the edges of her mouth.
In her bedroom, she finds two parcels lying on her coverlet: one is nearly as long as her torso and wrapped with brown paper and string. The other one is smaller, about the size of her hand, and, she has a sneaking suspicion, is the one Helen whisked away from her earlier, before she could see who sent it.
Her heart in her throat, she picks up the smaller one first, noting the multiple stamps, as well as the wrapping, which is slightly torn and smudged. She inhales sharply as she notices her name, Audrey Hall, inked out in a tight script she knows almost as well as her own, and her fingers shake as she tears into the paper.
Edward.
The stained paper parts to reveal a peacock-blue piece of cloth, the size of a handkerchief, folded around a smaller object. Several smaller objects, Audrey mentally amends, hearing the clink of what sounds like stones tapping against each other.
But then her gaze falls to the note tucked into the jewel-blue cloth, and the gift drops back onto the bed, forgotten.
Edward.
There is her son’s hand, clear as day, and Audrey sucks in a harsh breath, willing back tears. She unfolds the note with trembling hands:
Ma,
Won these in a card game with the locals and thought they would look fine in your hair for your birthday. Missing your shortbread and England’s winters. Love, Edward.
Breathlessly, Audrey scans the note for any date, and her heart plummets when she finds it: January 14, 1942. Almost a month after Christmas, and almost a month before the attack on Singapore.
She presses the note to her chest all the same, and closes her eyes. He lived. This note is proof enough that two months ago, he breathed and laughed and won something in a card game that he thought she might like.
“Lord protect him,” she murmurs, a prayer she utters as easily as breathing these days, and then turns her attention to the cloth-wrapped bundle she has neglected up until this point.
Gentle, reverently, she folds back the edges of the cloth, and blinks as the objects inside catch the light of her room’s lamp.
It is a set of four combs, made of some stone she does not recognize. They are nearly eggshell-colored, until she holds them up to the light, where they begin to shimmer iridescently, a beautiful play of pink-blue-green-purple that has her mesmerized. Her fingernail catches against the edge, and the feel of it, combined with the slight sound it makes, has her rethinking the material. Shell, perhaps? Each is shaped like an elongated U, and she is quick to pull her current pins out and let her hair tumble to her shoulders, sliding two of the combs into place on either side of her head, and one in the back.
Now she turns her attention to the larger parcel. The brown paper on this one parts just as easily, and like the combs, this one also comes with a note, but in a neat, looping hand that Audrey takes a moment to recognize.
My dear Audrey,
Many happy returns! I have friends from France who have decided to stay in England for the foreseeable future, and they assure me that this is very much in fashion. I hope it brings you the joy you deserve.
--Marjorie Pumphrey
If her hands are still shaking as she lifts the box lid, no one is around to see, and Audrey stares at the dress the thin paper protects, dropping the lid onto the bed beside the box and gaping.
For a moment, she is afraid to touch it, to soil it with her fingers, but then she reaches out to brush at the white collar, and relaxes—it is not made of silk or any fabric so dear, but a sturdy cotton, much like the other dresses that she owns and wears on a daily basis. Where did she get all the coupons for this?
In the light of the lamp, it is a warm pale purple somewhere between lavender and lilac, with a white triangular collar, short sleeves, and buttons marching down the front that are covered in the same purple fabric. It is covered in a pattern of pale white dots that glow in the lamplight, and the edges of the dress are piped in white. A thin purple fabric belt completes the dress, buckling snugly in front at the waist.
For a long moment, Audrey can only stare, running her hands over the soft fabric. It is not a dress for her, middle-aged and divorced with one son and a housekeeper position. This is a dress meant for some lively young girl half Audrey’s age, or younger, like Helen or Jenny, who should be out dancing with young men, stealing kisses, getting her first taste of ale and has her whole life before her.
She isn’t sure how long she stands there, letting the fabric of the dress slide against her palms, before she reaches down and rereads first Edward’s note, pressing it to her lips, and then Mrs. Pumphrey’s.
I hope it brings you the joy you deserve.
Taking a deep breath, steeling herself, Audrey lifts the dress out of the box.
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When Audrey steps off the last stair and into the parlor, conversation trickles away as the other four occupants turn to stare at her.
“Mrs. H…” Tristan begins, then continues to stare.
“Aud!” It’s Helen who rescues him, crossing the room to take her hand. “You look wonderful! Where did you get those combs?”
“Edward sent them to me,” Audrey admits, and then holds up a hand to forestall the astonished exclamations that immediately follow. “It were dated from January,” she says quietly, and hates to see the way the joy and happiness drains from their faces in an echo of what she felt only minutes ago in her room.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. H,” James says, but she waves his pity away, blinking back tears.
“I believe those are mother of pearl,” Siegfried says quietly, his eyes tracing a line from the combs to where her hair tumbles over her shoulders and back again.
Audrey smiles, shaking her head ruefully. “He says he won them in a card game.”
Siegfried’s grin is quicksilver. “Sounds like Edward.”
Their eyes meet and hold, their smiles softening and dropping away, and then both blink as Tristan clears his throat.
“Shall we?” He says gallantly, offering Audrey his arm, which she takes with a laugh.
As they approach the front door, Audrey glances over her shoulder, realizing Siegfried hasn’t joined them. He waves them on, and only now does she notice that he’s clad in his usual sweater, his pipe and book sitting on the arm of his chair, waiting for him. There is a caged air about him, as if he is waiting for something, unsure if it will happen.
He gives them a reassuring smile and makes a shooing gesture. “Go on. I’ll stay here and keep an eye on Jimmy.”
Helen doesn’t need to be told twice, nearly dragging James out the door, Tristan and Audrey on their heels.
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Audrey begs off after the second drink, so an obviously disappointed Tristan leaves off flirting with Maggie to see her across the square, even as she protests that she can see herself home.
“What kind of man would I be if I let you walk home in the pitch-dark by yourself?” He shoots back, sounding properly scandalized.
Audrey laughs at that, the second drink buzzing pleasantly in her veins, and hugs his arm a little tighter her ribs. “Daft creature. You’re a good man, Tris.”
The quiet of Skeldale House is broken as they tramp through the door, laughing about something James said earlier that evening. Siegfried rises to meet them, book in hand, an indulgent smile on his face, the radio playing quietly behind him.
Audrey bends down to pet Jess and Dash, who are in paroxysms of joy to see her again after an hour’s absence. When she straightens, her gaze travels over to Siegfried, and she notices the nervous energy he had before they left is now gone, replaced by his usual steady presence.
Audrey shifts on aching feet, and is about to head up to her room, when Siegfried clears his throat and sets his book down.
“Mrs. Hall, might I have a word?”
There is a heavy moment of silence, and then a flurry of activity behind her.
“Well,” Tristan declares, too cheerfully, “I should go check on the patients in the shed. Night, all.” Then he’s striding down the hallway, calling to Jess and Dash as he goes, and the dogs are only too eager to follow him, hoping for the biscuits they know are kept in the shed.
“Actually,” James says, stepping forward into the sitting room, “I have a question for Siegfried about a patient—”
“—that can wait until tomorrow.” Helen says firmly, taking her husband by the hand and towing him towards the stairs. “I think I hear Jimmy crying.”
Audrey watches as James tilts his head, puzzled but willing to follow his wife up the stairs. “I don’t hear the wee man…”
“Mother’s intuition,” Helen assures him, too quickly, and Audrey hides a smile until they’re gone from view.
She steps into the sitting room proper and finds Siegfried sharing the same mirth, wearing an identical smile. The bubbling feeling from her second drink hasn’t dissipated, and a moment later, they are chuckling quietly together.
“What did you need, Mr. Farnon?” Audrey asks as their laughter peters out naturally, brought back to wondering why she stayed behind.
In answer, Siegfried half-turns and reaches for the radio dial, turning the volume knob slightly, so the music can be heard a little more clearly, but not loud enough to disrupt the rest of the house or wake Jimmy. It’s something jazzy and full of trumpets. Glenn Miller, she thinks, until Siegfried's next movement erases all other thoughts.
Siegfried turns back, and Audrey can only stare as he extends a hand. “May I?”
He can’t be offering what I think he’s offering. Employers do not dance with their employees, even if it is their birthday.
Siegfried’s smile starts to fade as her gaze flits from him to the tightly closed backout curtains and back again, and he clears his throat. “Forgive me; I only thought you might indulge me. With the curfew, it’s not as if dance halls are readily available in Darrowby at this time of night. I didn’t mean—”
Whatever he didn’t mean is lost as Audrey crosses the room in three steps and slides her hand into his before he can fully retract both his hand and the invitation.
His eyes never leave hers as his warm fingers curl around her palm, and his other hand curves around and settles on her left shoulder blade with all the reverence of a priest conducting a sacred ritual. Then they are circling around the room as Glenn Miller conducts his band in a jaunty tune, and Audrey closes her eyes for a moment, letting Siegfried lead her into a foxtrot.
The scent of pipe tobacco, soap, and an oddly enough, floral almonds sweeps over her, and Audrey looks up as they move past the mantel, surprised to find that Siegfried has transported the camellias in their vase from the kitchen while they were gone, lending the warm yellow room a burst of color.
“Thank you for the flowers,” Audrey says, breaking the silence, and Siegfried nods.
“You needed cheering,” he says softly, just loud enough to be heard over the music. “I thought they might help.”
The sounds of Glenn Miller die away, to be immediately replaced by Peggy Lee, crooning about there being no shortage of love, and they circle once more before Siegfried sways to a stop.
“I must apologize,” he says, and Audrey blinks, surprised by the topic.
“Whatever for?” She splutters. For the dance? But no; he hasn’t moved away, and one hand is still curled around her upper back, the fingers of his other hand knitted with hers.
“I know how difficult Christmas was for you,” he says, and Audrey closes her eyes, her throat tightening. I don’t want to think about that right now. “I should have done my part to get the information you needed, and I did not. I hope you will forgive me, and,” he says, reaching into his pocket, “I hope this has the answers you need.”
Audrey takes the ragged piece of paper from him, trying ignore the sudden chill she feels as his hands leave her. “What’s this?”
Siegfried’s dark eyes never leave hers. “I called everyone I know from the army and a few I don’t from the navy,” he admits. “Major Saunders’ man brought that to me while you were at the Drovers.”
Audrey suddenly can’t breathe. Her hands are shaking again as she fumbles to open the page, praying her legs will hold her up. It is creased into fourths, and the edges catch as she unfolds it, her eyes scanning the words so quickly she has to read it three times before her mind catches up and can make sense of it.
Her heart is in her throat, and she scans it again, disbelieving, as she finds the words she’s been praying to see since February.
Five words. It’s a telegram with five words, but Audrey swears for a moment that it restarts her heart, and she can’t stop the tears from crowding her eyes. She blinks them away, and almost misses the words that are scrawled in an unfamiliar hand—Major Saunders’, she assumes—on the right side of the page:
in hospital in Karachi, India. March 12, 1942
She gives a low, inarticulate cry, her throat clogged with tears and choked sobs, and reaches out a hand. “Oh, Siegfried…”
He hasn’t moved, watching her face, his hope terrible to see, and when he hears the laughter and relief in her voice, his smile is as bright as a lit bulb in the midst of a blackout.
He catches her hand in his the moment she reaches for him, and he brings the backs of her fingers and her knuckles to his mouth, pressing his lips against them. She doesn’t register the touch at first, consumed with reading the same five words and accompanying note over and over, imprinting them on her mind.
When she does realize his lips are on her hand, for a moment, she just relishes the touch, looking up to find his smile stretching out on either side of her fingers. “Siegfried, he’s alive! He’s safe. My Edward.”
“Thank God,” Siegfried says thickly, lowering her hand but not releasing it from his grasp.
Perhaps it is the second drink, perhaps it is the outpouring of love she has been showered with all day, or perhaps it is because her son is alive and Audrey can feel the stress and the weight lifting from her shoulders, but for whatever the reason, Audrey flings herself across the foot of space between them and into Siegfried’s arms.
She feels him rock back a step, and feels a rumble in his chest as he huffs out a chuckle at the onslaught, but then she is burying her face in his shoulder, in the familiar soap-and-pipe-tobacco smell that she can recognize with her eyes closed, and then the tears she tried to keep at bay are dripping onto his sweater.
She no longer tries to stop them, and she can feel his large warm hands settle onto her waist and back, holding her as she chants “He’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive,” brokenly into the firmness of his shoulder, his sweater partially muffling her words.
Audrey finally remembers herself and pulls away, lifting her face and sniffling. “I’m sorry,” she begins, but then she looks up and finds Siegfried staring at her as if she is the most wonderful thing he has ever seen, and she can see her joy and relief echoed back at her in his expression.
It is this echo of her own elation that spurs her next movement. Before she can think about it, while Peggy Lee is singing "We can still have a portion of moonlight, another helping of stars and such; So there won't be a shortage of love when we love each other so much," Audrey leans forward and kisses Siegfried.
It is a gentle thing, and last two heartbeats. She clings to his shoulders, shivering with emotion, crumpling Edward’s telegram slightly in her fist as she knots her fingers into his sweater. For one glorious heartbeat, he responds to the warmth of her mouth and leans into her touch, his lips soft against hers.
Then she is backing away, and some of her sense returns. “I were—I—I—”
Her heartbeat is thundering in her ears, and she wants the carpet to open up and swallow her. What has she just done?
Siegfried’s dark eyes don’t lose a hint of their warmth, and he reaches out to cup her cheek as gently as she cradled the camellia earlier. “Audrey.”
The sound of her Christian name on his lips, in his smooth tenor, slightly roughened by tobacco and emotion, causes the breath to catch in her throat, and she can only stare at him like a startled deer as he steps closer, lowering his mouth to hers again.
This kiss is longer, warmer, and Siegfried’s arms wrap fully around her as she steps back into his arms. Her cheeks must be bright pink and flushed, she knows, but the admiration and warmth in Siegfried’s gaze banishes any embarrassment she might feel.
She steps back, fully out of his arms, breaking the kiss, and the hiss and pop of static from the radio as the song ends brings her back to herself.
Avoiding his gaze, she carefully folds the telegram from Edward back into fourths and tucks into her palm.
“Audrey.”
The sound of her Christian name on his lips....it could tempt a woman to sin, the way it rasps slightly in the back of his throat. Flushing, with the memory of the scrape of his stubble against her face, her gaze flies up to his before darting away to the blackout curtains, as if she might pull them back and find all of Darrowby crowded there, eager to see what happens next.
She lifts her chin, knowing what has to happen. “Good night, Mr. Farnon. Thank you.”
The warmth in his eyes dims, but he doesn’t fight her, as she knew he wouldn’t. He allows her to resurrect the distance between them. He takes another step back, towards the hearth, and nods in reply.
“Good night, Mrs. Hall.”
They face each other from two feet apart, and Audrey tamps down on the urge to reach out, to seize his hand, to step back into his arms and lift her face to his, to ask him to say her name again.
She nods once more, and then flees the sitting room for the safety of her room.
Behind her, she hears Siegfried’s soft footfalls, and the gentle click of the radio being silenced.
***************************************************************************************************************************************************
Siegfried waits at least fifteen minutes before climbing the stairs after Mrs. Hall.
Tristan’s door swings open as he reaches the landing, and he sighs, pulling his hand away from his own doorknob and pivoting to face his younger brother.
“Yes?” He asks tersely, because it is late and he desperately does not want to hear what Tristan has to say.
Tristan stares at him, mildly disgusted. “You absolute donkey.”
“None of that,” Siegfried snaps. “Don’t meddle in things you don’t understand, Tristan.” With that, he swings his own door open, steps inside, and shuts it before his brother can say another word.
Tristan eyes his brother’s abruptly closed door mutinously, then retreats into his own room. “Seems like someone should meddle,” he mutters, climbing back under the covers and stretching leg muscles that became cramped after crouching on the stairs for the last twenty minutes, straining to hear everything that happened below.
He’ll have to talk to Helen about the best plan of action tomorrow, he decides.