Page 170 of Wife After Wife

“No, that’s London...”

Harry

Progress was slow. Clare was taking him on a walk that included a “smallish” fell, a tarn (northern for small lake), a café, and Wordsworth’s cottage at Grasmere. The view was picture-postcard pretty, but the walking uphill part was disagreeable.

“Come on, Harry,” she said, waiting for him. “You gottaearnthat Cumberland sausage!”

She was wearing jeans tucked into thick socks, regulation hiking boots, and one of those colorful rain jackets that were de rigueur up here.

“But it’s sunny!” he’d protested as she’d made him buy one, along with his new boots.

“You really have no idea, do you? It could be near freezing and blowing a gale by the time we’re up high.”

So here he was, a ridiculous rambler, no doubt red in the face. He hoped none of the steady stream of walkers coming the other way—popular place, this—recognized Harry Rose, media mogul, under these absurd clothes.

Half an hour later they reached the top.

“Congratulations! You’ve conquered Loughrigg,” said Clare. “Here’s your reward.” She passed him a Penguin biscuit.

They sat with their backs against the cairn (northern for pile of stones), their shoulders touching, admiring the view.

“OK, Barr. I’ll concede, this is a rather lovely place.”

Clouds were scuttling across the sky; light was chasing shade over the fells. Far below, Grasmere was a splash of blue between green woodlands and fields crisscrossed by ancient stone walls.

“I might even write a poem.”

“I sometimes paint when I come up here,” said Clare. “It gets you like that. Makes you want to capture it all, whether it’s in words, pictures, whatever.”

He turned to look at her. The fresh air had turned her cheeks pink. “You win. Up north is all right. I should bring Eliza and Eddie.”

She took his hand. “You’re a lovely man, Harry Rose.”

“So are you. Woman, I mean. How are you not married?”

“Oh, I’ve already had two husbands. I’m in no hurry to go down that road again. I’ve made a good life for myself in London. I love my job, I’ve got nice friends. And I have you. Your friendship means the world to me.”

“Me too. I think I’d probably be dead now, if it hadn’t been for you.”

They carried on toward Grasmere, and soon reached the tearooms, where they found a table outside.

“I’ve just realized something,” said Harry, after a minute or two of companionable silence. “I haven’t thought about work all day. And... I’m happy.”

“The north will do that to you, Harry.”

“Clare Barr does that to me.”

Her smile faltered.

He suddenly knew—the time was right. “Clare. You know about my vices, my baggage, my questionable record as a husband. Could you ever see me as more than a friend?”

She took her time answering, and he was aware of the butterflies in his stomach.

“I think I could. But I do worry about what’s going on up here.” She tapped her temple. “You strike me as a troubled man. You’ve been through a lot. You might not be ready for another relationship.”

“But what if someone else steals you from under my nose?”

“That’s not going to happen.” She reached across and took his hand.