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He thought of his current position in the detached terms of a newsreel. Lord Peter Wimsey, having sent another murderer to gaol to await trial, sentencing, and death, now sits comfortably in the courtyard of Hotel Gigantic, Barcelona, and broods while he waits for his bride to descend for lunch.
What an ass he was making of himself. What a burden to poor Harriet.
Moodily he studied his cufflinks: ovals of silver, delicately marked. In the Spanish sun they gleamed more strongly than at home, shimmering like water. He looked away.
The courtyard fountain shimmered too, each stream of water a silver chain, the splashing that of a drowning man. No, no. That had been his dream his previous night.
He'd woken himself from horror, himself choking the life out of Crutchley with a chain, his hands made of silver too – and found Harriet leaning over him, holding him still and safe. Moonlight had stolen between the gaps in the curtains and silvered her honeyed skin, and he'd silently drunk in the reality of her. “Peter darling,” she'd said, “it's all right,” although it hadn't been –
“Peter darling,” he heard now, and looked up, and saw Harriet moving through the arched doorway.
“'Ah, did you once see Shelley plain'?” he said, and stood, and held out his hand. “'How strange it seems, and new!'”
“You've skipped a couple of lines, Peter,” she said in teasing reproof. Her fingers caught his strongly, and as they had done after his nightmare, linked fast. These were a most welcome chain.
“You have indeed plucked out the heart of my mystery,” he said, and kissed her fingers.
“And you've used that one before.” Her smile was private, only to be read by him. “Are you well, my lord?”
“Now that you are here, my lady.”
Her gaze searched his face, and he steeled himself to seem as he always was. He rather thought his effort might have failed, judging by the way her eyes sharpened – but she could be trusted to say nothing. She was truth, she would keep him honest, but she also had learnt discretion in a hard school. He silently thanked the God he didn't quite believe in for the miracle of her.
His miraculous wife said prosaically, “We've a few minutes before luncheon. Do you wish to stroll, or do you wish to loll?”
“Loll, absolutely,” he said, and pulled her down to the stone bench on which he'd been perched.
“I shall arrange myself in a decorative pose,” she said, suiting action to word.
But he couldn't manage to follow. Straight as a man tied to a board, still holding onto her, he gazed again at the flow of silver chainlink drops in the fountain, and thought of the outing when they'd found their missing chimney-pot. He had felt joy then, felt himself lost in the stream of it. Why now did he feel on the outside? Still?
His wife sighed, and he said, “Tired, domina?”
“No. Or, well, pleasantly so.” Her voice was low and soft, and he helplessly responded as he'd done for all those hopeless years, every bit of him yearning toward her. Her private smile had returned, a flash of golden amusement there in the sun. “You are a delightful companion to wake to.”
“Am I?” he said.
“Don't fish for compliments in the stream of my conversation,” she said severely, although her smile said otherwise.
And despite bad dreams and waiting trials, he fell into joy, felt the links between them tighten in a happy bond, felt sun and ease for the moment take him over.
It was not, perhaps, the honeymoon he'd imagined, but oh, it was an idyll sweeter than he deserved.