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I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Like most men – and especially British gentlemen of his generation – John Steed never knew what to do when a woman cried. Given his general penchant for younger women, it had, of course, happened a few times. In those instances, he would hover, perhaps offer an awkward embrace or a pat on the back with a few gentle words. Sometimes, he simply said nothing, and kept his eyes trained on the quickest route of escape. None of the tactics were especially effective; a few merely gained him the ire of the sobbing young lady, and a slap on the cheek. Thus, when Emma Peel showed up on his doorstep, eyes swollen and red, he had no idea how to respond.
"I – I'm sorry to come," she apologized. "I wasn't sure where else to go."
Steed felt his chest tighten. It had been two years since he stood at the window and watched her drive off into the sunset with the man she had married, Peter Peel. Two years, and hardly a word. Certainly, there had been Christmas cards, a phone call on occasion, but all were void of the warmth – the intimacy – they once shared. He knew why, understood why. But knowing and understanding didn't stop him from occasionally mourning the loss…just as he did in that instant. He forced a smile. "You're always welcome, Mrs. Peel."
A sad smile flickered across her lips at the familiar tones. "Thank you, Steed."
She stepped lithely into the flat and Steed closed the door behind her. Instinctively, his hand came to rest at the small of her back, the other extending toward the living room. "Please."
Without a word, Emma moved to the sofa, slowly lowering herself into a sitting position. Steed watched as her gaze washed over the room. Her eyes shone with the warmth of amusement. Very little had changed in two years. They exchanged a wry glance, then he moved to the side table. As he seated himself beside her, he produced a snifter of brandy. She took it.
The silence stretched on. Emma sipped the brandy in quiet contemplation, occasionally swirling the amber liquid around the hand-blown glass. If he listened closely, Steed could hear the steady tick-tick-tick of the clock in the kitchen, could hear the occasional beep of a horn at the roundabout down the street. But he didn't rush her. As with most things, Emma would tell her story in her own time.
"It's over," she said quietly, finally. Her eyes took on a glassy quality he had seen only once before. No further explanation needed.
His voice was low, quiet. "I'm so sorry, Emma."
"As am I." Reaching up, she swept an errant tear aside with an index finger. "There were no diabolical masterminds, no arguments. We simply didn't…communicate…in the same terms any more. I couldn't read him…."
I couldn't read him…the way I could you. His mind finished her thought. At this, Steed swallowed. He was complicit in this. Mrs. Peel being Mrs. Peel, she would never say as much, but Steed knew; it was why she had left her thought unfinished. For three years, they had worked together, faced danger together. Eventually, their thoughts meshed as easily as their bodies. It was a bond on a fundamental level that altered both of them immeasurably. Neither dared call it love. It simply was and both refused to focus too long on the possibilities.
Taken in context, there was nothing particularly scandalous about their behavior; he had been a bachelor, and she, at the time, a widow. And a merry one at that, she once pointed out to him. The return of Peter Peel, however, changed that. Whatever the dynamic between them, Emma was married to Peter, and he would be the one she went home with. The honorable man that he was – that he had become over the years – could only step aside.
"It was a slow death, one we both recognized," Emma continued. She sighed, shaking her head. "I'm not entirely sure why Peter asking for a divorce upset me so badly."
I could hazard a guess, Steed thought, but said nothing at first. He knew her, after all – knew her very well. She would see the answer soon enough. But her extended silence suggested a response. "The road not taken?"
Wordlessly, she nodded. "I love him. The 'old' him. And the 'old' me was a good match for him. But..."
"You both changed in the time you were apart."
"We both changed. And I – I forged other relationships, ones better suited to me." Emma drained the last of the brandy. She then studied the empty glass intently. "I hate wasting time. And I feel as though I've very little to show for the last two years."
For the first time, her gaze diverted from the snifter. She looked directly to Steed, a rueful smile curving her lips and glistening in her eyes. "Driving over, I wasn't sure I should be here. I've been horribly distant."
Steed felt his throat tighten and he fought to keep the timbre of his voice even, non-chalant, even as his mind whirled. The sting of tears threatened his own eyes. "Think nothing of it, Mrs. Peel."
Slowly, Mrs. Peel reached forward, gently brushing his hair back from the temple. "'Yet knowing how way leads on to way,'" she quoted softly, "'I doubted if I should ever come back.'" She paused. "I missed you, Steed."
"Emma –" As he struggled to respond, he watched as tears spilled down her cheek once again. He never knew what to do when women cried. So he did the only thing he could do: He kissed her.