The London Restoration

by Rachel McMillan

  “Always fancied doing that when you returned from work every day. All the simple little things I dreamed about that are just routine and real life. Oh! But I haven’t offered you tea. I’ll see to the kettle.”

  “Don’t see to the kettle just yet. Come sit a moment.”

  Diana lowered to the sofa and turned toward him. He looked at her hands folded in her lap.

  “It’s quite alright. Truly.” Brent studied her a long moment: blue eyes wide on him, blonde wisps escaping from the kerchief, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. He wanted to kiss her deeply. Untie the knot of her hairpiece. “Where were you, Diana? When you were away? Those five long weeks. That favor for your friend.”

  “Brent . . . More than anything I want . . .” She wrung her hands. “I can’t tell you.”

  He nodded. Exhaled. “I am choosing to trust you because I do love you and I want this to work.” And because Ross told me I had something to go home for. You have to be worth it. This has to be worth what Ross did. “But I need to know a few things.”

  “Anything I can, I will tell you. None of this has anything to do with you.”

  “Are you lying about how you feel about me?”

  “How can you possibly ask me that?”

  “Because there are so many contradictions. I need to know that you still love me.”

  “Of course I still love you.”

  “Or your vows to me?”

  “I would never lie about that.” Diana followed his gaze to the white splotches on the kitchen linoleum.

  “Did you use your maiden name during the war?”

  “Yes. But I didn’t want to. You have to understand. I never even got a chance to be a Somerville. After the wedding. Not to anyone but—”

  “But me, Diana. I was off in the trenches assuming you took the name I gave you.”

  “I know.” Her voice was sad, solemn. Her eyes devastated.

  “Did the Royal Society of Architects ask you to consult on churches?”

  “No. Someone else did.”

  Brent raked his fingers through his hair. “It’s a good thing you’re you, Diana. Because I might be a fool, but I certainly wouldn’t be a fool for anyone else.”

  “It’s a good thing you lectured on grace today.” She smiled. “Because you’re doling out a lot to me and it’s worth more to me than you know.”

  Brent let out a long breath. “That will have to be enough.”

  “I will answer you as many times as you need. But just remember, Brent.” She looked pointedly at his carefully creased and buttoned collar hiding the scars underneath. Brent shifted and tugged at his shirt. “I’m not the only one keeping a secret.”

  * * *

  London had its own secrets. Brent tried to read them as they ventured out that evening. It was the first day, he supposed, of an established routine. He would teach, she would attempt to housekeep, and after a burnt dinner they would set out into the city to visit her churches.

  As they continued on their way, the affinity they enjoyed before the war returned until they easily fell into matching steps, Diana’s shoulder brushing his own.

  “Do you know on the very worst day of my entire life, I couldn’t even recall the little part of myself I had built my entire life around? The apostle Paul.” Brent studied his shoes. “All that my uncle taught me. All that I found in Cambridge and in books and in my uncle’s library. It was like a curtain closed and I couldn’t remember anything. Corinthians. Galatians. All those blasted letters. The things I had memorized, and now I stand in front of that lectern and feel like I am an actor. Like I am just reciting something I have no right to.”

  Then, silently, they strolled Westminster. They stopped at the fountain in the chaotic circus of Piccadilly, rambled under the dimmed lights of Leicester Square adhering to the slow creep from blackout back to full light in the wake of war. They passed beneath familiar golden gothic structures as the lights of Parliament winked and Big Ben tolled for the boats and ferries bobbing in the Thames and people scraping back to a semblance of normal life.

  Brent hadn’t assumed the churches would be dangerous spaces. Rather, exciting prospects for a few hobos in need of temporary shelter and prowlers who wanted to sketch or take photographs or loot.

  He had dragged his sketchbook along, guessing Diana’s pilgrimage could last a few hours. He knew the curve of her neck and the flash of her eyes well enough to detect when she was truly taking in the potential of a church’s reconstruction or merely absorbing its loss.

  “There is something beautiful in sacrifice, isn’t there?” she said in a low voice. “Something liturgical in rebuilding. In reconstruction.”

  But it was a dark beauty and one distilled in shadow, stone, and exhumed graves. Diana routinely reflected on the woodcarvers and stonemasons who never lived to see the whole of their work.

  Brent soon realized the unsettled feeling that stretched over his shoulders and pricked at his stomach was not just left over from his time in the war, nor from their first fateful visit to All Hallows-by-the-Tower. Diana was being followed. The entire world was on edge, sure. Brent more so for the years of artillery fire and stretchers to bear while the fear of explosives, of outdoor elements, and of surprise sank the sky low and pulsed the injury in his left hand.

  Every footfall and silhouette. Every slight noise or scurry. He found it hard to believe that for even an infinitesimal moment upon their reconciliation, he would deny Diana his presence.

  As their nightly excursions continued, Brent tried to find some meaning in the sequence of churches they visited. The first few were clearly of the Roman era, whose history tugged at the city’s heels. Then a random sequence of ones that hosted either a sermon or a concert or wedding. Some, he assumed, were to her whim. Others, he might have figured for nostalgia.

  St. Clement Danes, a church she had pulled him to when they were dating, for example. It was whole and unscarred. A building Brent had taken for granted a million and one times when he passed it during his tenure at King’s. It was one of two structures known as the island churches that punctuated the otherwise fluid succession of structures from Fleet Street swerving into the Strand.

  Before Brent registered shadows and Diana disappeared into a silent self that detached from him to meet careful lines and Doric or Corinthian columns or the whole of Wren’s sculpted poetry, he was hers.

  Her notebook lay in repose in her open, languid fingers and her eyes flitted from a church sanctuary she knew and loved to him again and again.

  Moments later, beyond Wren and himself, a shadow appeared in the open doorway. Diana grabbed at her permit and Brent stilled his shoulders beside her, edging so she was slightly behind him.

  A man entered, removed his hat, and looked around from roof to chancel. His eyes settled on Diana a moment, Brent’s erect shoulders still as stone.

  He and Diana ignored the man. Brent hoped he would dissolve into the night, but he lingered.

  If she noticed, Diana was unfazed. Instead, she scribbled in her notebook and cast Brent a glance now and then. When they left, their footfalls fell in step as they often did with familiarity, the past in their stride.

  They weren’t two blocks down Fleet Street, rimming the obvious Tudor grandeur of Prince Henry’s Room and heading beyond the Temple, when Brent sensed they were being followed. It was something he had honed on the Front, a sense that was sometimes unfounded and in other instances lifesaving.

  He leaned into Diana so they were aligned.

  The man, however, was interested. Intent. Brent met Diana’s expectant gaze.

  Brent tugged her on a diagonal across the street. He familiarized himself with their surroundings: the nearest taxi driving by, the nearest public house, restaurant, or tea shop where they could duck in at a second’s notice.

  But Brent Somerville, at his core, was also stubborn. He wanted Diana to be able to trip over London and take it under her wing. He resented the slightest prickle on his neck and her gentle shiver. S
o he switched into confrontation mode. Sure, his weapons of choice were an umbrella and a satchel. And her revolver. He slid his arm around her back and retrieved it from its resting place tucked into the waist of her trousers.

  “Are you following us?” Brent demanded.

  “Why would I be following you?” His heavy accent belied his rather English sweater vest and poorly flourished bow tie before he began speaking in Russian.

  Brent continued their route, tugging Diana along at a frantic pace. While she was silent, he made out her heavy breath. Cabs passed, sleek and black, under the streetlights. His mind was created to connect the dots and read more deeply into a moment or a sentence or a translation of Scripture. Shadows spouting Russian were something new, but he would take it in stride. But Wren churches couldn’t account for the shadows and the danger he sensed rather than experienced.

  The footfalls didn’t stop, however. They pounded a rhythm matching Brent’s mounting heartbeat.

  “I know that man is following us and I wish I could tell you why.” Her words whistled through clenched teeth. “Brent, we need to follow him.”

  “He’s following us.”

  “I know that, but we need to find a way so that we’re pursuing him.”

  “Pursuing a stranger in a trench coat like something in a James Cagney film! Diana!”

  Beyond thought, pride, or purpose, Brent shed the skin of logic and defied reason in exchange for Diana’s unruly hair and ineffable determination.

  So while the footfalls were a heavy percussion behind them beyond St. Martin’s, he pulled her down a side street that left St. Paul’s in their wake. And soon he no longer felt the pulse of the shadow or the fear that he would be overtaken. Calming himself, he waited several breaths, Diana curved to his side like a comma. She was a barrel of secrets and yet she was vulnerable. Unsure.

  The moon slowly rose and the stars pricked the night sky. He wielded London in the palm of his hand, with every alley, nook, and crevice his for the taking. He grabbed her hand and towed her through a crisscross of routes that would try even the most seasoned Londoner.

  The Russian man was certainly startled the moment the tables had turned, and by the time they reached the bridge over Holborn Viaduct, Brent could hear the man’s heavy and exerted breathing. The man continued at a rather fast pace, leading them through a sloppy maze.

  Brent kept a death grip on the gun and held Diana beside him. The man strolled across the street, hands in pockets, and Brent waited for a taxi to pass before crossing the street behind him. They neared the man, who led them through Smithfield Market.

  He finally stopped and swerved. He said something in his native language with an exclamation Brent could only assume was an expletive. “What do you want?” he demanded in poor English.

  Brent held the gun in front of him. “I don’t fancy being followed. So what do you want?”

  The man looked at Diana. “You are causing trouble.”

  Brent tucked Diana behind him and held her with a restraining arm. “I have my sketching and she has her church consultations. The only trouble I see is a man pursuing us unnecessarily.”

  “You are causing trouble. We know about you.” He addressed Diana again. “This is a warning.”

  Brent waved the gun. “A warning? I’m the one armed. I am giving you a warning. Turn around and leave.”

  “Do you work for him?”

  “I’m a theology professor,” Brent enunciated. “And this is where we part. Carry on.”

  The man turned and left.

  “Where is he going?” Diana whispered. “We have to see where he’s going!”

  “Diana, he knows we’re behind him. He won’t just lead us to his destination—we’ll just be looping London all night.”

  Her shoulders stiffened. “Then let’s loop London.”

  Brent dropped the gun to his side. The man retreated, looking behind him again and again, then headed back toward the route he had just taken. Wherever he had been going, he clearly decided against it.

  Brent steered her elbow in the direction of home. Clerkenwell had always been a lopsided affair. But when he pulled Diana into its uneven tumble of buildings, he knew its walls and brick surroundings were a measure of safety. He resisted the urge to cast a glance over his shoulder, but she stole a look all the same.

  Brent fiddled with the stove and the kettle. Diana’s figure was cast in a perfect silhouette of shadow, framed by the blinds and the living room lamps. She was almost ethereally beautiful. Maybe even more so now, not studying Wren churches or shrugging into life like a sweater that was too big for her. Rather like a confident woman, she tilted her chin a little defiantly, all of her secrets straightening her back.

  “It took the war ending for me to point a gun at someone,” Brent said ironically as he handed a cup of tea to her before he transferred the gun from his coat on the hook to her handbag.

  Chapter 15

  May 1944

  Bletchley Park

  “This war will be won by those who see the world a little differently than most,” Simon had told her when first they met.

  War or no war, Fisher, Simon, and Villiers daily taught Diana to see her world differently. Simon tried to teach her chess, a game that, despite her proficiency in so many other problems, evaded her. Fisher was on hand to teach her about music. She had once watched him cast a line to the pond in the yard on the rare occasion he had the opportunity to practice the activity contributing to his nickname. Later at the pub, he told her fishing helped his logical focus.

  “I work out all sorts of problems in my mind. Math problems. Logic problems. Problems about the world. You know, in equations, things turn out equally with measured reason. When I see the state of our world, even the chaos of our lives here sometimes, I cannot help but think we could borrow from the field of mathematics.”

  Simon, evidently trying not to notice Villiers flirting with an airman at a nearby table, soured. “If everyone saw the world through your eyes, Fisher, we’d all be automatons. It leaves no room for human emotion.”

  Fisher took a long sip of lager. “I’m sorry. I believe that Simon Barre is trying to lecture me on human emotion.”

  “Sometimes on my birthday,” Diana said to placate them, “my father would lay out a bit of a game where one clue led to another—all little presents until my big present. Like a bike or a music box or a trip to Paris. I know he meant the exercise to sharpen my mind, but the time and effort behind it were all emotion.”

  Simon’s smile was shrewd as he collected his empty glass from the stained table and rose for a refill. “That’s why we need you, Diana. You meet us at the intersection of logic and emotion.” He extended his empty hand for Fisher’s glass. Then he walked to the bar, taking a stroll by Villiers’s table.

  What was between them? She always thought Brent was a better student of human nature, but what would he make of them?

  From the start Diana thought Brent and Simon would get along. Simon was introspective and thoughtful. Exhaustion never crept into his voice, and his mind was consistently sharp. He was a bookish fellow who mostly kept to himself, save for Fisher Carne and Villiers. The latter at one end of a current charging through the two of them whenever they occupied the same space.

  “You sure you don’t want another wine, Diana?”

  She yawned and shook her head.

  Fisher took a long sip of ale. “This helps me sleep at night.”

  “How do you sleep at night?” Simon asked Diana as he approached their table, fresh drinks in his hands. “Shut your brain off? You must worry about your young man.”

  Diana knew full well that worry was as physical an ailment as a winter cold. She lay awake at night imagining every scenario, worrying until perspiration beaded on her forehead and her throat was sore. Wondering how she had been accustomed to being alone for so long, only to become so emotionally tethered to someone that the thought of him being injured or crippled or tired or hungry pierced straight throu
gh her.

  “I know how she sleeps,” Fisher contributed. “She counts churches as some would count sheep.” Diana laughed and he continued. “I grew up in Canterbury. Did you know that? City of pilgrims. And relics.”

  “A cathedral can only be such if there’s a relic,” Diana said.

  “Is that true?” Fisher said. “Never thought of it before.”

  “Because a relic was what the pilgrims would come and see. And it was good for the town’s business. They would have market days and feasts for the saints and fairs.”

  “For your sake, Diana, I hope your young man makes it through.”

  But then she would open one of Brent’s letters—or, more often, steal a look at one of the many churches he had sketched her—and feel as if every thread of her life was interwoven tightly with him. How often did one just understand someone . . . from the very first moment?

  It was Fisher who noticed that Simon was ill a few weeks later. The close quarters and poor ventilation meant that illnesses seemed to bounce from one person to another. Fisher got word from the infirmary that Simon had pneumonia and was transferred to the town hospital.

  Villiers was a study in composure. She touched the curled slope of her perfect, shiny brown hair as she stepped into their flat the following evening.

  “Fisher said he would tell us about Simon,” Diana said. “I’ll make you a cup of tea and we can ring and see if there’s any update.”

  “Why would I need an update?”

  Diana shook her head. “Because there’s no use wringing our hands about Simon separately when we can worry about him together.”

  “Worry about Simon?” Sophie made a sound that was almost a word.

  “You can admit that you’re worried about your friend. It’s not a weakness to care for someone.”