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Lord Peter Death Bredon Wimsey prided himself on being a gentleman, if nothing else. Granted, he was an occasionally unconventional gentleman, and even he had to admit that he had his fair share of quirks. And, as a gentleman, remembering and practicing proper etiquette was a matter of great import. Remembering himself was a task he handled adeptly and one he seldom ever had to be reminded to perform. And if he did ever appear to forget himself, or his manners, it was more often than not an intentional lapse - a matter of great vexation to a number of individuals, most notably his brother's wife.
He was at that moment reminding himself that he was a gentleman, and thus a product of breeding and his environment. Besides that, it was the time of year which is meant to be overflowing with goodwill towards one's fellow man. The Shrewsbury College Senior Common Room was festooned with holly and garland - the scouts had clearly outdone themselves, even for such a small gathering of friends and colleagues. Miss Martin, Shrewsbury's Dean, had sent Lord and Lady Peter (he did think that had quite a nice ring to it, even if his beloved would forever be "Harriet" to him) an invitation to the college after the Michaelmas term ended. It was an excellent opportunity to visit Oxford after their nuptials, a prospect that appealed to Peter, who had exceptionally fond memories of the place - especially (and rather recently) New College Lane. Peter and Harriet had agreed that a visit was an excellent idea, particularly before various familial holiday engagements weighed too heavily on their time.
Besides, the Dean had included a note indicating that they'd also extended an invitation to a gentleman who was lecturing at Balliol for both the Michaelmas and Easter terms, mentioning that he was a most interesting man, and would doubtless benefit from making Lord and Lady Peter's acquaintance. Evidently he was quite knowledgeable in the field of history and antiquities and had made something of an impression at Oxford.
And now, having been introduced to the gentleman and made his acquaintance, it was completely illogical for Wimsey to be harbouring such dislike for him.
And yet, there it was.
The man in question was an American - which didn't bother Wimsey in the slightest - who'd studied at the Sorbonne, which was perfectly respectable, and had done some work with the University of London - likewise respectable. He clearly knew what he was doing; Balliol wouldn't have invited a complete ninny to be a guest for any length of time, certainly. The man was an academic, and Wimsey rather enjoyed the company of academics, and on his more fanciful days, flattered himself to be one of that esteemed ilk. There was nothing offensive in the man's face or demeanour - he was not rude, nor was he in any way uncouth. He was clearly intelligent, and yet Wimsey found himself acknowledging that quality with only grudging respect.
So what was it about this man that was so dashed annoying?
Just then, Miss Martin smiled genially across the dinner table and said, "Tell me, Dr. Jones, will you be staying in England over Christmas?"
As he turned to answer, the firelight glinted behind him, catching the chiselled line of his profile. It was at that moment Lord Peter realized, finally, what was troubling him so much about Dr. Henry Jones.
He was rugged.
Now, Wimsey had no problem with ruggedness on general principle. He didn't object to Dr. Jones being rugged: he objected to him looking the part. He was a tall man - rather taller than Peter, which vexed him somewhat. Dr. Jones was also in possession of a rather well-defined jaw line, which caused Wimsey - much to his internal horror, for he was not accustomed to these flights of ridiculous insecurity - to scrutinize his own jaw line and find it rather lacking.
His own dear heart's delight was sat next to him, holding his hand beneath the dinner table. As always, Harriet's hand felt smaller in his, yet warm and strong - what reassurance he found in those fingers even now squeezing his own. She would call him silly for behaving thus (he could not deny it himself); she would inform him in her own charmingly sardonic way that he was acting like an ass (though he doubted she would actually call him an ass, regardless of the fact that he wouldn't blame her even if she did).
Then Peter's ear caught a snatch of the conversation going 'round the table and he looked at Dr. Jones. "I beg your pardon, Dr. Jones, but did you say Newgrange? That's a bit of a way from Balliol, isn't it, what?"
Dr. Jones lifted his glass of port (Cockburn - not the '96, but an excellent vintage nonetheless) to his lips. "My business here is twofold, Lord Peter. As honoured as I am that Balliol invited me to lecture and begin a bit of lobbying in favour of the college organizing a separate archaeology department, the Newgrange monolith has always held an interest for me. I've arranged for a small side trip to Ireland in time for the winter solstice."
Wimsey grinned. "Hoping to catch a glimpse of Tir na nOg, perhaps?"
The good doctor let out a soft, dry chuckle and shook his head. "I'm afraid the mythological aspect of the site isn't high on my list of priorities, my lord. I'm more interested in the chamber itself and its astronomical relevance. It's fascinating that a prehistoric people could have crafted a fixture to such precise specifications as to take full advantage of the first-light of the winter solstice. It's an incredibly delicate undertaking for a society using such crude tools, wouldn't you agree?"
Wimsey considered this. While he certainly agreed with part of what Dr. Jones was saying, and the historian in him could appreciate the importance of the monolith and what it had told - and what it had left to tell - scholars about the culture, something about the way Dr. Jones spoke about Newgrange seemed dishearteningly clinical. He cleared his throat. "Personally, I find it more fascinating that one such as yourself could so easily separate the mythology - the faith - of a culture, and its architectural feats."
Dr. Jones appeared to consider this for a moment. "It's not a matter of separating the two, Lord Peter. The winter solstice is scientific at its roots."
"Ah, yes, of course," he replied, smiling. Not only was Dr. Jones rugged, he was a cynic - hardly a charming trait (unless displayed by Harriet, who managed not only to pull it off, but make it damnably attractive). "How could I possibly have forgotten the age-old celebration of the earth tilting just-so on its axis, marked by the burnin' of logs festooned with holly and the layin'-down of arms 'round the mistletoe." He started to say more, but he caught himself - more precisely, he caught his wife watching him intently. He smiled and inclined his head at her. "Surely you have an opinion on the matter as well, my dear Harriet?"
"I certainly do," she replied, a hint of that familiar almost-smile threatening to curve her lips. "But I believe a proper debate has only two sides. I fear my opinion might only muddy the waters. For the nonce, I think I'll remain a silent observer."
The little minx; if I didn't know better, I'd think she wanted to see her arrogant ass of a husband brought down by an equally arrogant Yank, he thought, arching an eyebrow at her. She arched one back and he shook his head a little: she was enjoying this too much.
Meanwhile, the archaeologist had taken off his glasses and was pinching the bridge of his nose. "Believe it or not, my lord, I do understand where you're coming from - the aspect of faith isn't easily separated from a culture's existence and achievements."
Wimsey took a sip of port, savouring its mellow sweetness as it slid across his palate. "And yet you manage to do just that."
"Well, for my purposes, I have to." He replaced his glasses and leaned back in his chair. "It's one thing to acknowledge that Newgrange was considered to be a faerie mound and a doorway to the land of the Fae - it's another to believe it. I deal in facts, Lord Peter. No one knows exactly what the solstice chamber was used for, and I wouldn't mind finding out."
The smile at Peter's lips was enigmatic and he was supremely thankful that Miss de Vine, who was also a lover of facts and order, was currently engaged in a spirited debate with Miss Barton at the other end of the table. He decided to have a spot of fun with the doctor. "Why, of course it's the burial chamber built by the Tuatha De Danann for Daighda and his three - three? - sons, the most notable of them I believe was Aengus or, if you prefer, Oengus Mac Oc, who either lived in Newgrange, or was buried there, depending on who you ask. The god of love, don't you know, who scoured the land for his one true love, whose visage he saw in a dream. Found her, too. There was a bit of a down-side, as Cael was chained to about a hundred other maidens when he did find her, and they were all slated to be transformed into swans or geese or summat on the stroke of midnight. But that's true love for you - never easy, what with all the transformin' and flyin' away."
"As luck would have it, Aengus was not put off by his beloved's flight, choosing instead to transform himself into a swan and bring her to the River Boyne," Harriet added, sending Peter a quietly meaningful sidelong glance.
"You both know your mythology," Dr. Jones observed wryly. "And can spin a heck of a yarn, too."
"Alas, Dr. Jones, there is where I must demur. My wife is the literary genius between us. I merely repeat tales - usually at length - which is more often than not a happy by-product of good company and excellent wine, I assure you. When I am by myself, I'm quite dull, as my wife will doubtless concur."
"Is that true?" he asked, looking at Harriet.
"Quite," she agreed with a solemn nod. "Peter always has been a crashing bore." This comment brought a rather unladylike snicker from one of the other SCR members; Peter suspected Miss Martin to be the guilty party, though she appeared to be watching the exchange with no more than intellectual curiosity.
"So, my lord," Dr. Jones said, "you submit to the belief that Newgrange is in fact a faerie mound, and the seventeen minutes of solstice dawn lighting chamber is, what, a doorway to Tir na nOg?"
"Oh, of course not. I would never suggest something so outlandish." Harriet coughed into her napkin, but Peter, smiling, went on. "As I remember it, the land of the Fae is only accessible at night, and on the longest night of the year, that doorway is more accessible than at any other time. ' 'Tis the year's midnight and it is the day's, Lucy's.' Perhaps the sunlight isn't the opening of the doorway to Tir na nOg, but the closing of that doorway."
"...All right. Let's assume I went along with you on this. Let's say the solstice chamber was built to transport the dead to Tir na nOg, and the solstice sunlight coming through was the door to Heaven - for lack of a better word - closing?"
Peter shrugged. "The door to the afterlife closes, leaving the living to celebrate with their Yule logs and holly. Why not? What is the Yule celebration if not to celebrate the end of the dying year? I'm sure if you look at the early history behind such holiday accoutrements, there's probably something relevant."
"Oh, I do wish Miss Hillyard were here," Miss Lydgate said suddenly. "I'm quite certain she would know."
The Bursar gave a brief shake of her head before replying dryly, "Miss Hillyard would likely have grown bored of the conversation before it ever got to this point."
"As it happens," Dr. Jones said, "mistletoe, ivy, and holly were all thought to have magical - even healing - properties. If I recall, mistletoe was considered magical because it didn't grow on the ground. They were revered the rest of the year, and thus held sacred during times of feasting, which is only logical."
"Isn't mistletoe deadly?" Miss Lydgate asked. "That would be a dreadful surprise - accidentally killing the person you were meant to be healing!"
"Oh, Harriet - that would be splendid!" the Dean said, clapping her hands together. "A Christmas mystery - death by mistletoe!"
Miss de Vine looked over then, momentarily distracted from her conversation with Miss Barton. "Do you imagine that's a particularly practical method?" she asked, blinking owlishly behind her glasses. "I hardly think one getting kissed to death is very realistic as fatalities go."
"No, dear," Miss Martin chuckled. "We're only saying that mistletoe is poisonous. Do keep up."
"You do realize, Letitia, that the victim would have to consume an entire salad of mistletoe to have any effect?"
"Hush, Steve."
Harriet made a thoughtful, noncommittal remark as Miss Martin, Miss Stevens, and Miss de Vine discussed the likelihood of using mistletoe as a poison, and turned her attention back to the debate going on between the two gentlemen at the table.
"Still, Lord Peter," Dr. Jones went on, apparently heedless of the side-discussion, "regardless of holiday trappings, the celebration, no matter which way you look at it, no matter what you call it, still heralded the end of a cycle, and an end to long winter nights. The return of the sun. Rebirth. New beginnings. A second chance at things after humanity mucked them up the first time. People are still celebrating that today and calling it Christmas. But the roots are in the ancient celebrations, which were based more on survival than anything else - they were celebrating the point at which winter's increasingly long nights would start growing shorter. There's no need to complicate the facts with fanciful stories."
Peter was thoughtful for a moment, looking at Dr. Jones and wondering if it could be possible that one man should be so entirely devoid of a poetic soul. "Did you know, Dr. Jones, that it's also been said that Newgrange - or, if you prefer, Brug na Boinne - was a place of hospitality? Supposedly that they had on hand an endless supply of ale, fruit-bearing trees, and... roast pig, I believe."
"I'm not sure I see your point, my lord. There's no proof to support that Newgrange was all those things - or any of them."
"Perhaps you're not looking hard enough, Dr. Jones. I rather think you're determined to view Newgrange as a tomb because that's what you know - death leaves an abundance of clues, usually. It's not difficult to find facts in death. However, literature and mythology offer metaphors and might-be-trues rather than those hard facts you value so much. As long as you keep thinking of Newgrange as nothing more than a 'grave broke up again, some second guest to entertain' final resting place, you'll never understand the full scope of its relevance. Rather than trying to prove that Newgrange is just a cairn or an admittedly advanced calendar, why not consider its place and meaning in ancient festivals? Without the myths and stories you seem to hold in such disdain, the chamber is little more than a draughty room that lights up for a few days a year. Let it have a bit of mystery, for heaven's sake." There was nothing for it - he was well and truly ruffled. Dr. Jones' ruggedness ceased to bother him; now Wimsey found himself vexed by the archaeologist's apparent inability to see the entire forest, choosing instead to focus on one ruddy tree.
"Of course I didn't mean to cause offence, Lord Peter. I only thought one such as yourself, as both a sleuth and historian, would appreciate the value of seeing such a vast mystery solved."
"'Oh, to vex me, contraries meet in one: Inconstancy unnaturally hath begot a constant habit.'" Before he could say more, Harriet apparently decided it prudent to intervene, reminding Peter for what most definitely wasn't the first time and surely wouldn't be the last why she was the woman to whom he would forever be devoted:
"I think, Dr. Jones, what my husband is trying to say is that there are some things that should remain mysteries, for that is what gives them life and lets them endure in the minds of men. These enigmas, you see, capture us - and our imaginations - because they're enigmas. Once you discern that a place of reverence and mystery was just a cairn this whole while, it... loses something, you see. It's no longer a mystical passage to the land of the Fae - it's somewhere someone was put to die."
It was at that point Miss Martin chimed in with an appropriate and timely question for Dr. Jones regarding Keiller's work at Windmill Hill and West Kennet Avenue and the possibility he was going to set his sights on Avebury, sufficiently distracting him for the remainder of the evening.
***
Much later, long after the group had dispersed, Peter and Harriet left the SCR, wandering across the frozen quad. The full moon glowed down on them, illuminating the snow with a silvery sort of light. Harriet felt rather than saw the swirling snowflakes brush against her face. When she glanced over at Peter, she smiled - he'd forgotten his hat, and now those snowflakes were clinging to his sleek blond hair, the effect erasing at least ten years from his age.
"It might be a trick of the moonlight, missus, but I do believe you're smiling. Might I inquire as to the reason for such lovely lips to be upturned?"
She shook her head slowly. "You may not."
"Oh, I like that," he replied sulkily, which only served to broaden the evidence of Harriet's mirth. Peter saw, and his petulance subsided long enough for him to observe, "Well, whatever it is you're smilin' at, it's something I'm doing. I believe, mon coeur, I can live with that." They reached the gate and Peter looked up at the sky for a moment, pursing his lips in thought. "I say, what do you think about walking to the inn, rather than taking the car?"
She considered it a moment; it was an odd request - but then, there were no such things as 'odd' requests where Peter was concerned. No, if he wished to walk to the inn, there was probably a reason for it. She shrugged. "I don't see why not. The snow isn't coming down heavily at all, and it's not a far walk."
"That's my girl."
They were nearly half-way down Broad Street when Harriet spoke.
"Tell, me, Peter, do you really hate archaeology, or was it merely Dr. Jones' square jaw that gave you offence?"
There was a check in his stride, but when he spoke his tone was light. "My dear woman, I have no idea to what you are referring."
"You exhibited a lack of patience with Dr. Jones that bordered on the surprising. And I did notice you glower a bit when he shook your hand."
"I did not glower, missus." There was a sheepish pause. "I was only vexed with the fact that I had to look up to greet him. I didn't realize they grew Americans to be so tall," he added, under his breath and somewhat sullenly.
"That's rather unlike you. Or perhaps you were annoyed with the fact that, for once, not all female eyes were trained solely on you."
He laughed at that, closing his eyes and tilting his head back; the sound that came forward was rich and musical, and was so pleasant to listen to that Harriet nearly stopped walking altogether.
"No, no, my darling - believe me, I'm quite accustomed to losing the admiring gazes of the fairer sex, most frequently when I'm in Saint-George's company. But as long as it is your eye looking on me, I daresay I'll be perfectly content if another woman never so much as glances my way. Why would you suppose such a thing, anyway?"
She shook her head. "I'm not sure. I was just surprised, I suppose, at your reaction to a few of Dr. Jones' ideas."
"I suppose they were a bit strong," he conceded after a moment. "My reactions - not his ideas."
"No, I wouldn't say they were overly strong - only passionate."
"Well, if they were just passionate, I don't think I'll apologize at all," he replied with a grin.
"You were going to apologize?"
A few strides passed in silence before he replied. "No, I don't think I was, really." Peter said nothing for a moment as he collected his thoughts. "I suppose I was a bit idiotically envious of him at first, though I couldn't possibly hope to articulate why. Aside from the fact that he was tall, and there was the small matter of a rather square jaw line, which you so kindly brought up."
"Now, Peter--"
He held his hand up, stopping her. "Ah, ah, ah. Let me finish, darling. I said I could admit to a bit of foolish envy at first. I'm afraid by the end of the evening, I rather pitied the good Dr. Jones."
"Pitied him?" She blinked once. "Whatever for?"
"He hasn't a shred of poetry in his soul. Neither has he a Harriet, and for that he is as unfortunate as I am supremely thankful. But first and foremost, he's lacking poetry. History is overflowing with mysteries, and while I myself have no problem when a few industrious individuals uncover a lost culture or try to reconstruct a buried civilization, it pains me to see the very thing that gave a culture that which makes it unique - its mythology - cast aside as unimportant and frivolous. I consider myself to be an aficionado on frivolity; believe me, things get downright unbearable without it."
"Well," she began cautiously, "archaeology is a science. One can't get too laden down with things that defy proof. Otherwise I imagine no progress would ever be made."
Peter blew out a deep breath that steamed in the brisk winter air. "But it's a damned shame, stripping all the magic away from a faerie mound like that."
"Peter, darling," Harriet said, taking his hand and squeezing it. "You know as well as I that the Fae don't exist."
"I hardly think I would have found my Cael without Aengus on my side. You married me, my dear. And that alone is enough to make me believe in the Fae, changelings, leprechauns, and mermaids."