The London Restoration

by Rachel McMillan

  “It is when it’s you. All moon-eyed over Brent Somerville’s sketches. All worried he won’t return. If I don’t care, there’s no chance of loss.”

  “That makes no sense. You can’t stop yourself from caring for someone. Because your brain can tell you all it needs to, but your heart . . .”

  “Not all women are the same as you.” Sophie wriggled her gloves off her fingers and set them on the counter.

  “I am not saying we all love in the same way . . .”

  Sophie stopped midstep en route to the stairwell. “Love? Who said anything about love?”

  * * *

  Simon had recovered and entered the pub pale but animated. Diana assessed him with her chin slightly raised. She noticed the slightest quiver of Villiers’s lip and the slightest exhale moving the smartly tied scarf at her collar. Villiers lit a cigarette for Simon and one for herself, and they communicated in long lines of passive smoke.

  After Fisher had disappeared for chess at another table and Sophie had gone home, Simon took Diana into his confidence.

  “Maybe it’s just my near-death experience talking, but do you know I think I’ll spend most of my life trying to impress her? Without her knowing I am trying to impress her?”

  “So I was right. You knew her before.”

  “Of course I did.” Simon studied the last gleam of amber in his pint glass. “She refused me.”

  “Refused?”

  “I asked her to marry me once and she said no. She said that we were too similar and that we would stand off forever. That people like us are independent and we need to be able to . . .” Simon swilled the ale a moment and finally drained the glass. She knew there was more but didn’t press.

  Diana had rarely seen him finish a second pint as he had just done. Usually he wanted to be in complete control, and often he and Villiers would engage in a conversation that would drive his attention anyway.

  Later that night, Diana drew her knees to her chest on her bed and read one of Brent’s most recent letters. They weren’t dripping with love language and he didn’t shower her with nicknames, but she didn’t need that to recognize the surety of having someone so deeply attuned to her. He was in her very fabric.

  Her love story had fallen so easily into place, it seemed. She had never doubted it, had always wanted it, and the only true work and turmoil it had taken her hadn’t been on account of confusion or emotion, but the war and distance and the lie she would have to formulate every day of her life. The barrier that the piece of paper she’d signed had built between them.

  For as much as she wanted to return to Brent and begin their life and fulfill every last dream they whispered in the dark in their fleeting married days together, she also knew that the end of the war clicked everything back into place. She would be back at King’s and her studies and away from her new friends. Would it be enough? If years down the road should the conflict end and she return safely to his side, would she blink and wonder if it had happened at all? Would it become something she almost remembered, an echo like a story almost told until it faded into something nonexistent?

  * * *

  Simon was quiet at his desk the next day, and while the rhythm of their world clicked on with typewriters and telegrams, reports and shuffles, Diana could sense that the others were treating him more attentively and kindly. Getting him tea, asking if the radiator was too loud or if he wanted to work away from the window. Simon had earned a deep sense of respect and loyalty.

  Diana tried to focus on the feed from her German signals. She realized the importance of always being alert and aware. Radio waves could crackle through unintentional feeds and pick up all manner of messages. At times a strong reception would crackle or a shrill sound would pierce her ear until she held the earpiece away a moment and looked up at Fisher.

  The next night, the beautiful musical programs at eighteen hundred hours when they were on the night shift were a welcome reprieve. She was so used to some of the composers now. When an incoming signal from the Germans interrupted any part of a symphony, she felt it a loss, even though the signals were what kept their ears pressed for hours a day.

  Fisher and Diana noted the route of German air force bombers over their target and a report on the weather.

  Later, after the shift, music carried into their conversation in a language she shared with Fisher, who more than ever was willing to barter his knowledge of the composers as she told him of Prior Rahere and the courtyard of a medieval church where she had fallen in love.

  “I almost envy you.” Fisher collected his hat and walked her out of the building. “Because everything in your love story is set up in a perfect line, isn’t it? Like a composition or a problem.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “And you know it will end well.”

  “How? How do you know?”

  “Because all the variables are there. Perfect meeting. Perfect love story. He’ll come back and you’ll live a boring and happy life.”

  “Maybe you will too. A perfectly boring and happy life.”

  Fisher took a long time in responding. “I can’t imagine going back to teaching after this. Day in and day out at a blackboard. And can you imagine me back in Canterbury? Attending Evensong? Tutoring? Having tea with my mother on Sundays? I’ve seen too much of the limitations of our world, Diana. And I want to make it right.”

  “How?”

  Fisher shrugged. “It’s a problem I’ll solve.” They neared the path she would take toward her house and she bade him good night.

  “Maybe I’ll go sit in the yard at Great St. Bart’s,” Fisher said. “See if a pretty girl shows up.”

  Diana looked over her shoulder and gave a quick wave. “A perfectly boring life.”

  Chapter 16

  October 1945

  London

  Diana looked around the empty bedroom, to the vacant space beside her on the bed and then to the closet where a hatbox full of Brent’s letters sat. During his training and then after he shipped out, he wrote about his daily life and his new friends. That Tibbs and Holt fancied themselves playboys, and Matthew Ross was a quiet chap from a Quaker background. Brent had expanded on each during the few times they met while she took leave and he was able to escape his life.

  What am I doing?

  Brent would sleep on the sofa forevermore now. She rubbed at the faded bruises on her wrists. Through the open bedroom door she strained to hear the slightest indication that he was awake over the ticking clock on the mantel. She rolled onto her side and then her stomach. Then onto her back again, flinging her arm over her eyes. She supposed she could count sheep. Or churches, as she did during the war.

  Perhaps she couldn’t topple every barrier between Brent and herself, but she knew she’d sleep easier the moment he was involved. Simon had told her she was incognito, but this was the third time they were not alone at a church and the pattern certainly stood out.

  She’d give Simon an ultimatum. Especially if her work was becoming as dangerous as his note had said. He had telegrammed from Vienna where he was meeting with his SOE agent, saying that he could be reached by telephone.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, then risked waking Brent up by tiptoeing out of the bedroom for a glass of water.

  “Can’t sleep?” His very awake voice cut through the dark.

  “No. Can you?”

  “No.”

  She turned on the light on the side table and sank onto the edge of the sofa by his feet. He sat up and swung his legs down to the floor to give her room. She closed the space between them and kissed him softly. “I know what might help.”

  His thumb ran over her arm to her shoulder blade in a customary move familiar to her from when they had lived out their marriage vows to every last letter after their wedding and on the few subsequent occasions of Brent’s leave. “Are we going to talk about tonight?” he said quietly.

  “Not yet. I wish I could, though. You have no idea how much.”

  Brent relea
sed a loud exhale. “Well. If we’re not going to talk about that,” he said, shifting away slightly, “you need to think about when you’re going to start your graduate studies, Diana.”

  “Oh.”

  “Tell me you’ve thought about it. The war took away your pursuit of your degree, and who’s to say you might actually be needed at some point when they start their restoration.”

  “I’ve been so preoccupied.”

  “I am well aware.” His tone darkened a moment, but he quickly lightened it. She knew he recalled his promise that he would trust her. “You need to speak to Silas. He can help you find a suitable supervisor and we need to get you enrolled. I’ll tell him to expect you tomorrow.”

  “Brent, there’s so much going on right now. There’s the church consultation and I am resettling.”

  “When . . . whatever it is you’re doing is over, you need to have a plan. I’m not letting you waste your brain tending house.”

  “I’m rather terrible at it.”

  He smiled. “I’m likely to starve, but I don’t care. But I do care about your future.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “I married you for your brain, Diana. So keep it sharp.”

  “Not for my looks?”

  “Heavens, no. Can hardly bear looking at you, unfortunate creature.”

  Diana giggled. “Well, it’s equally difficult for me, you know.”

  “How so?”

  She turned her face toward his. “You’re a ginger.”

  “Horrible, is it?”

  “The worst.” She kissed his nose.

  “Come with me tomorrow and at least talk to Silas?”

  Diana nodded. Brent made to settle in again, but she stopped him. “I’m wide awake now. Why don’t you take the bed? It’s not been a fair balance so far. Get a decent sleep.” Brent opened his mouth in protest, but she said, “Please. I’ll just read myself to sleep.” She squeezed his hand. “Take the bed.”

  He slowly rose with a nod and patted the empty side of the sofa. “Kept it warm for you.”

  She smiled in the darkness as he creaked the bedroom door shut. Diana pulled her knees to her chest and sat for several moments before she rose in the direction of the telephone and stretched the cord as far as it would go so she could whisper into the receiver.

  When finally she was patched through to Vienna, Simon said, “You alright, Diana?”

  “I will be when you let me tell Brent what’s going on.”

  Simon’s curse through the receiver was muffled. “We talked about this.”

  “Or else I stop.”

  “He can’t be involved. Especially with your faulty cover story.”

  “Faulty cover story?” Diana laughed.

  “Diana, this is about you and your unfortunate marriage.”

  She’d have been upset if his tone hadn’t been so teasing. “My marriage is not unfortunate. Brent’s helpful. We were followed from Clement Danes and Brent turned the tables.”

  “Followed.”

  “Now you’re standing at attention. A Soviet. He threatened me. Well, he warned me.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “He was heading in the direction of Smithfield Market. It was clear he didn’t know London. But Brent scared him off, and barring us leading him on a wild-goose chase all night, we let him go.”

  “This is why Brent—”

  “I am not a trained field operative, Simon. I don’t have all of your gadgets and weapons. I am a woman of medium height who startles at her neighbor’s pet badger. Brent is strong and he would die for me. He also can hold that gun without his hand shaking, which is more than I can do. I need him.”

  “I don’t want my involving you to be a mistake.”

  “I can very much assure you that it is a mistake. I’ve found no messages. I have encountered a few mysterious men, but they’ve stumbled in and out. Oh, and I did find a pack of cigarettes. The brand on the rim is Piccadilly but the carton is Pall Mall.” She could hear Simon’s brain processing on the other end. “And the carton has the eternity symbol etched inside. I don’t know what they mean or if they’re to leave a bread crumb trail.”

  “Well, over here we found someone else with an infinity sign in his briefcase and two messages in his pocket. I need that blasted key for those messages, or else it’s gibberish. What if the key is just sitting in one of these churches? Hang it, Diana! I am so confused. I’m supposed to be calm and smart and collected, but . . .”

  “Who’s to say I am not a double agent?”

  “You’re too pretty.”

  “I don’t want to be pretty. I want to be a threat.” Diana joined Simon’s immediate laugh, only to lower her voice. “Please tell me this is going to be worth it.”

  “Keep your eyes open. Except for right now. Go to sleep.”

  “I will.”

  But Simon didn’t click off immediately. “You know, despite the fact that I am sending you on wild-goose chases, I consider you a friend. And I’m rubbish with friends.”

  “Yes. As I do you.”

  “You had right nasty bruises on your wrists when we last visited, Diana. I know you love your husband, but . . .”

  The air heaved out of her lungs. “He . . . he has nightmares. About the war. He doesn’t realize. I think h-he’s reliving a moment again and again. And he assumes I am the enemy. He doesn’t mean it. He feels worse about it than I ever could.”

  “I’m sorry for broaching a delicate situation. But I do care.”

  “Well, that’s a first.”

  * * *

  Brent stirred a small whirlpool in his tea the next morning. What would their lives have been like if he had decided her secrets were too much of a wall? He would have every right. Not many men would settle for the precarious trust between them. He always regretted those thoughts the moment they crossed his mind, most often after a night that left him more tired than restless.

  “Are you looking forward to seeing Silas?” Brent asked, noting her eyes on him.

  “He always makes me think of my dad. Happy thoughts.”

  “Whatever you need to do to get that doctorate, Di, we’ll do it. I’ll tutor or . . .”

  “Pawn a priceless relic?” Diana joked. “But what about the dusting and the hoovering and the baking and the six babies?”

  “Six?”

  “Poet’s Corner has a lot of names.”

  He knew she was teasing, but his heart lit with the thought of it. He wanted a family with her. He always had. But there had been a war and there was one secret after another. “They’ll wait. Because you, my love, need to further develop that magnificent brain of yours.”

  * * *

  Diana informed Brent that she would see Silas but only after sitting in on Brent’s lecture. It had been so long since she first stumbled into his classroom to hear him frame concepts and ideas about Paul and the early church. That symbolic church had withstood just as much as the parish churches felled by the Great Fire and the Wren churches felled by the Blitz. And yet it was two thousand years strong. She hadn’t fancied herself a religious person, but Brent’s understanding and teaching of it were a magnet for her. She was always moved when he provided a historical and philosophical context to what he was teaching, then layered it with the sure personal conviction that made it his passion.

  His father had been a vicar. And his grandfather before him. And his uncle, who raised him after his parents died, had prepped Brent for the church. But Brent’s mind wanted to wrap around the Scriptures in a different way. “Besides,” he told her, “I’m far too sarcastic to tend to a flock.”

  She leaned her head in her hand and watched as students were pulled into the context he provided to things that might have sounded dull as tombs from behind a dusty pulpit, but with Brent Somerville behind them they seemed new.

  “Are you a professor here?” a student whispered beside her.

  “I’m his wife,” she said proudly as Brent extolled the importance of Paul assuming the languages of the
countries he was visiting. Assimilating into the cultures and traditions so they could understand him and so his truth would hammer home.

  “His taking the time to understand the worlds he wanted to reach,” Brent said, “allowed him to have a voice that many would not have. He didn’t have the whole frame of reference. He didn’t have the whole picture. But he tried. That trust won him an audience and became the ember from which the church’s fire spread.”

  Memories pulsed with the beat of her heels over the linoleum as she exited the lecture hall. Corridors she knew well, filled with the familiar wafting scent of cleaning supplies, books, and some indescribable concoction of tea and close quarters.

  Diana approached Rick’s office.

  “Diana Foyle, what a pleasure.”

  “Diana Somerville,” she corrected with a smile.

  “Come have lunch with me. Like the old days.” His smile was charming as he shifted the books and papers in his arms. He didn’t need to work. He was rich as Midas, but he always said his brain needed a lark.

  “I appreciate the offer.” She looked over the books he was holding. A few on his usual fields of study. And a pamphlet in a language she didn’t understand but with the same characters as on the piece of paper Simon had shown her, translated as bird and steeple. She thought back to the infinity symbol in the painting she had seen in his office. “But I have a previous engagement. Looks like you’re preoccupied. I don’t recall you reading Russian in our previous acquaintance.”

  “New lines of research.”

  “I’ll leave you to it,” she said cordially.

  “I don’t know what you see in him,” Rick said once she was halfway down the corridor.

  “Don’t be so ghastly boring, Rick,” she called over her shoulder.

  Diana slowed near Silas’s office. The door was slightly open and she needed only to nudge it open to be welcomed warmly. She knew Silas would be more than happy to discuss her continued studies. She stopped her hand on the doorknob. If she went in, she would be occupied for the rest of the afternoon. They’d talk about the past and Silas would reinstate her as a tutor. Everything would fall back into place.