From Fitzroy's Private Diary (Extract 72)

I knew I should never have done it. I swore it when I first stepped over the threshold. This was to be my castle, my solace, my respite from the world. I should never, never have let anyone into my apartment.  Especially Euphemia.

My residence, which I bought not long after entering the Service, was my first truly personal space. Previously, I had lived in at my father’s house, at halls in university, and at various locations while working. This space was entirely mine. I can still remember the satisfaction of unlocking the door for the first time when I took ownership.

Of course, I had needed workmen to bring the place up to my standards, but that was only a transitory issue. When the last coat of paint had dried, the last nail hammered and my carefully selected furniture brought in, there was no need for anyone else to enter my space ever again.

Later, the telephone intruded. I resented even the voice of others in my place of calm. Having, by this time, become very much of an army man, I was more than able to keep the rooms I used in good order. I did not resent a little work to avoid the necessity of a cleaning woman. I could cook for myself and be generally self-sufficient. I did send my laundry out, but then, only the most unfortunate do their own washing.

The apartment came with a service suite, but until Griffin’s time I kept them unused, the furniture covered in dust sheets and often filled with boxes and papers that I should have kept in the office.

Overall, I gloried in my freedom. I have never had a problem with my own company. Too often in my life the company of others has been forced upon me. I like being alone. I can read. I can study. I can do whatever the hell I like in my own space.

Letting Euphemia know where I lived, and even occasionally using my place as a base, seemed like a good idea at the time. Were there ever more damning words written? I was not used to having someone there. However, Euphemia was, I felt, the most sufferable of people to allow in. We had spent so much time working together, and so quickly, that she was sensible of my moods and most of my peccadillos.

Most.

One day, we had been working long hours on planning an intricate mission. Both of us had sore heads and sore eyes from pouring over maps, and badly damaged documents. Euphemia had decided to make us dinner. She was just about competent by then and I was too tired to disagree. I sat by the fire; my feet stretched out in front of my hearth, and took a few moments to consider the merits one of my private collections.

I had barely begun when I heard the woman behind me. Apparently, I had run out of chilli pepper, which she loves so much, and she wanted to check if there was a stash of the stuff secreted away. As if I would hoard chillies!

There was no escaping her seeing what I was viewing, particularly as I had taught her never to try and quibble when you have clearly been discovered. I awaited the reaction. I admit, I was more than a little curious, as well as a little apprehensive. I could not have predicted what she did next. She laughed. I was shocked. I had expected disapproval and scorn. I turned to say as much and reflect on how she should have responded as a lady and as a Vicar’s daughter.

For some reason she found this even funnier. She said that her time with me had opened her eyes to many aspects of the world that had previously been hidden. I responded rather stoutly that she should have a care to what she said, lest people think the worst of her.

She merely continued to laugh, saying that while she had no doubt that decent gentlemen, like her Bertram, would never entertain such a collection of photographic material, it seemed quite in my character that I would do so.

This stung and I found myself thrown on the defensive. I cited that many gentlemen had similar collections, and the kind that I myself collected were generally considered art. She snorted at this and returned to the kitchen. I felt most uncomfortable. The dynamic between us had shifted slightly, and I was doubtless the loser by it.

There was but one thing to do. This Christmas I must send Bertram a special present, an album with which to begin his own collection.