"He thought, she's kind as well as clever and beautiful. His heart lurched, a sensation as unfamiliar as it was unwelcome. He thought, Oh God, not that complication. Not now. Not ever." - Death in Holy Orders by P.D. James
Adam looking at Emma // for @madinthemoon, @all-ye-soulful & @anarwen
Emma has been patient and Adam has been keen. But it will take a raging storm, a well-tended fire, and a bottle of whiskey to truly bring them together.
Word count: 6,416
Rating: M
Pairing: Adam Dalgliesh x Emma Lavenham (Dalgliesh-TV)
Themes: romance, first time, there was only one bed, wet clothing, forced proximity
Read on AO3.
Excerpt
A tidy, criss-crossed stack of wood filled the fireplace when Emma reached the main floor. She paused at the foot of the stairs. Adam was crouched before the hearth with a match in hand, sleeves rolled to the elbow, balancing lightly on the balls of his feet.
She wondered: what was it about this place that freed him so? The mill had belonged to his aunt, yes, but its serenity seemed to inhabit him from the moment he opened the door. Unencumbered by the attentions of fame or command, his only obligation on this cold night, in a darkened room, was to bring light and warmth into it, and he appeared incredibly at ease with himself and the task at hand.
“Adam,” she said quietly.
He was staring intently into the fire as if willing it to burn quicker. “Hm?”
“There’s only the one bed.”
His hand hovered over the matchbox before selecting a new one, and striking it. “Yes.” The head flared to life as he looked up at her. “Are you alright with that?”
“If you are, yes.”
“I am.” Again, he held her gaze with an unwavering certainty that nearly stole the breath from her chest. Held it for as long as it took the match to burn low to his fingertips, then knelt down, tossing it into the far corner of the grate where the flames hadn’t reached.
She sank into the nearby armchair and watched him work, aware that a heat was spreading up through her body that had nothing to do with the fire. He was good with his hands; patient, experienced. Knowing when to feed the flames and when to let them breathe. Coaxing mere sparks into a powerful blaze. Earlier, he’d laid his sweater to dry across the hearth, and now damp shirtsleeves clung to his back, accentuating broad shoulders and smooth muscle, a lean strength she’d only felt beneath layers of impeccable tailoring. The cotton flexed as he straightened, thrusting hands into pockets. As the fire crackled and popped contentedly, he looked on it with an equal measure of satisfaction.
Allowing himself to love again was hard. But it turns out falling in love has its own challenges for Adam Dalgliesh–starting with the first date.
Word count: 7,085
Rating: T
Pairing: Adam Dalgliesh x Emma Lavenham (Dalgliesh-TV)
Themes: relationship advice, sexual tension, slow burn, falling in love
Read on AO3.
Excerpt:
A summer breeze wafted through the Jaguar’s open window, rich with the honeyed scent of hydrangeas from the sculpted hedge nearby. But their fragrance was lost on Commander Adam Dalgliesh whose every sense was concentrated on a plain white business card. Embossed: Dr. Emma Lavenham. Wyndham’s. 01-946-0237.
He turned it over in his hands. He’d done it so often this past week the card’s edges were rounded and worn. Almost as his heart felt.
“You could ask me out on a proper date.”
He’d thought of nothing else since last Saturday. Remembering an evening of meaningful glances and nuanced conversation as he and Emma skirted around inquisitive acquaintances at the Bow Gallery. Finally, alone over drinks, they’d been able to speak openly about what had alighted between them.
He’d briefly cast aside the shadow of grief that had been his soul’s companion and found he could feel things he thought he’d lost forever those five years ago. An aching vulnerability. The capacity to love without guilt.
More astonishing was the realization she wasn’t repelled by his shadow. She embraced both the light and the dark. There was an understanding there and he didn’t know whether it was born from some personal history she had not yet shared, or a professional knowledge of human emotion seen through centuries of art.
It was equally reassuring and terrifying.
Just a fortnight ago he’d dismissed Kate Miskin’s inquiry about whether he was in a relationship. Now, he was undeniably chasing one. The about-turn was too quick for his restrained disposition. Adam Dalgliesh didn’t rush into anything; he was methodical. Deliberate. And yet, since he’d opened himself up to the possibility he found it difficult to resist. Like trying to hold back a river with your hands.
“You have my number.”
It was simple, really. One phone call. But was he prepared to face the chain of events that would ensue? And if he did arrange a date, what on earth did that entail in this day and age? Nearly 15 years had passed since he’d last taken a woman out. The one who’d become his now-deceased wife.
So it was with relief that he met the Commissioner’s newest assignment, landing on his desk four days after seeing Emma. Here was a chance to refocus his mind and, perhaps on the weekend, return to deliberations of the heart.
That was the plan.
Except now he sat in the car, when he should long ago have gone into the ancestral home of the former Lord Chief Justice and retaken a witness statement from the wayward nephew.
He was distracted, and it irritated him. When he and the other officers on the case went outside for breaks between interviews, he stood apart, glowering at trees in the middle distance. He’d quit smoking years ago and while he didn’t miss it, the habit had given him something to do with his hands when his mind was troubled with thoughts.
Currently, thoughts of burnished hair and intelligent eyes. Of soft lips meeting his own, still sweet with chardonnay. Of a distinctly pleasurable tug, urging him to do something more passionate than say goodbye as Emma had stepped away that night.
“Sir?” It was Inspector Roscoe, who he hadn’t seen approach from the house.
“Yes?” He snapped.
“Sorry sir. Only, you’d been here a while so I thought you might be waiting for me to join you. Are we returning to the station?”
Dalgliesh checked himself. Responded calmly: “Not yet, there’s something I want to revisit first. I’ll meet you inside.”
Diligent, efficient, practical Roscoe. After the Mehta case, he’d wasted no time offering the inspector a spot on his team and this was their third investigation together. It was the cup of tea, brought unbidden to Mrs. Proctor when they’d delivered news of her niece’s death, that had earned him favour with Dalgliesh. He had empathy – a trait woefully lacking among much of the force – combined with good judgement and grace which made him an even rarer type of copper. Of course, Kate Miskin possessed those qualities in spades. But since Dalgliesh could no longer have her, Roscoe would have to do.
Dalgliesh knew he was married, with a young family. Trying to be a present father and husband alongside a job that afforded little balance. Although Roscoe, judging by overheard phone calls, seemed rather adept at navigating the intricacies of personal relationships. And, Dalgliesh suspected, infinitely more knowledgeable. An idea began to form as he swung out of the driver’s seat, face resolute.
He conceded now that his misgivings were a distraction from the truth: he would call Emma. How could he not, when an inexplicable warmth filled his chest every time he thought of her?
That left just one question unanswered.
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They set off down the hall together, Dalgliesh one pace behind as if not quite convinced by the moment that had just taken place: the warmth of her lips on his cheek, the reassuring grasp of her hand. She, too, glanced occasionally back as if not really believing he was there, giving them a chance.
Word count: 2,571
Pairing: Adam Dalgliesh x Emma Lavenham (Dalgliesh-TV)
Themes: romance, slow burn, falling in love, missing scene
Read on AO3.
Excerpt
“Let me introduce you.”
They set off down the hall together, Dalgliesh one pace behind as if not quite convinced by the moment that had just taken place: the warmth of her lips on his cheek, the reassuring grasp of her hand. She, too, glanced occasionally back as if not really believing he was there, giving them a chance.
They turned into the larger gallery space, well-filled with guests conversing and perusing the art scattered throughout.
“Just here,” Emma said and guided him over to an older woman and younger man in conversation, the latter holding a bundle of papers under his arm. “Audrey.” She gave a friendly tap on the shoulder to the woman, who turned around. “Audrey, this is my friend Adam Dalgliesh.”
The woman looked at him appraisingly and smiled warmly. “Hello, Adam.” She was in her late sixties and had a classical look about her, long greying hair pinned back into an elegant chignon.
“Audrey is the owner of the Bow Gallery, but we’ve been friends for years,” explained Emma. “She was the advisor for my doctorate, and still does me a favour when I need one.”
“It’s not a favour when it’s well deserved,” Audrey replied, shaking Dalgliesh’s hand firmly. “And Emma is one of the best.”
The women exchanged appreciative smiles.
Emma continued: “And this is Henry Linton, one of my university colleagues.” She addressed the man who was probably ten years her junior, looking rakish in a black turtleneck and houndstooth jacket. “A rising star,” she added.
“Where funding allows,” Linton quipped, then nodded amicably at Dalgliesh. “Welcome. You’ll be wanting one of these.” He handed over a program.
“When Emma said she was inviting you, Adam, I was so pleased,” said Audrey. "I attended one of your readings last year – absolutely stirring poetry.”
“Thank you.”
While she seemed to know exactly who Dalgliesh was, and why he’d been invited, Linton on the other hand was pleasingly oblivious and took Dalgliesh into his confidence the moment the women broke off to talk shop.
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about poetry.”
“I don’t know much about –” Dalgliesh glanced at the program, “‘illuminated manuscripts.’”
Linton chuckled. “Let’s get you a drink then.” He flagged down a passing waiter, handed a glass of champagne to Dalgliesh and switched his empty one with a refill. “To be honest this isn’t my scene either. My area is Roman antiquities: bits of pottery, mosaics, coins.”
“You work together?”
“Yes, at Cambridge. I’m a junior lecturer. But Emma often asks me to come to these sorts of things and help out. ‘Broaden my network.’ She’s great that way.”
Dalgliesh’s focus shifted to Emma and Audrey, who were speaking excitedly, and for a moment an anxious expression flickered across his face.
Linton seemed to pick up on it, though misreading the source. “These things can get a bit claustrophobic,” he admitted, “so I like to sneak out back and watch what rolls into the car park. That’s my other passion – cars – and you get all sorts at events like these.”
He paused then, looking at the man in front of him and remembering, “Say, is that your Jaguar out back?”
“It is.”
Linton groaned appreciatively. “Thought I saw a tall bloke like you step out. Do you race?”
“Not without good reason.” Dalgliesh’s reply was tinged with amusement, but the irony was lost on the younger man.
“You should try it – you’ve got the gear. It would be a shame not to. Just around a track, you know, nothing illegal.”
“Racing, again? Really, Henry.” It was Audrey, returning to the conversation.
“I’m a man who loves a thrill. So arrest me.”
Two sets of female eyes landed on Dalgliesh but he kept his cards hidden. It was Emma who rescued the moment, gesturing over her shoulder and saying to him, “Come on, let me show you my favourite.”
They maneuvered through the crowd to a corner at the back where a simple frame enclosed an ancient sheet of letters, surrounded by brightly coloured illustrations in blue, red, and green. Dalgliesh had to stoop slightly to get a good look, one hand in his trouser pocket.
“It’s from a 15th century Italian prayer book,” Emma explained. “The artist is Maria Ormani, a nun and manuscript illustrator – that’s her there,” she pointed to the bottom of the page. “It’s the first self-portrait by a woman in Italian Renaissance art.”
They both observed the figure before them, garbed in the traditional black and white habit, who met the viewer’s eye with composure and grace.
Emma traced the Latin inscription surrounding the portrait, translating, “‘Handmaid of God, daughter of Orman, and the writer of the book.’ She’s omitted her family’s surname, which could be intentional. Her father and grandfather were aristocrats and when the Medicis returned to Florence they were thrown out of the city. They lost everything. So Maria joined a convent.”
She was smiling almost proudly. “Her gaze isn’t demure, like a male artist would have depicted women at the time. It’s unwavering, confident. She has individuality. Maria may have chosen self-exile, but it gave her freedom. She found a community who nurtured her talents and embraced her for who she truly was.”
Emma became aware that Dalgliesh had been looking at her, rather than the manuscript, for some time now and she faltered. “Sorry. I can get a bit carried away.” Although she’d been an advisor and lecturer for years, it was the usually the art that garnered her audience’s admiration – not herself. She felt her face flush.
He redirected his gaze to the portrait, thoughtful.“Self-exile,” he said quietly to himself before straightening up and addressing her. “It’s a beautiful piece, made more remarkable with context. You obviously love your work.”
“I do; it’s very important to me. We can learn so much from the past.”
Another couple appeared from behind to view the portrait, and they stepped aside, surveying the room together. “Are you working on any cases?” she asked.
“Just one. At a nuclear power plant in Norfolk. We finished this afternoon and then I drove down.”
She seemed surprised. “That’s a long drive.”
A small shrug. “I enjoy the scenery, the long stretches of road. It helps me think. And I didn’t want to miss this.” He paused, then added in a lower tone, “Miss you.”
Her glance up was quick, earrings flashing in the light. Though his posture and tone were casual, they belied the intensity in his eyes as they met hers and held them for several moments. Stormy grey into luminous blue.
“Adam?”
They both turned and drew back from each other instinctively. A middle-aged woman with vivid red hair and lipstick to match stood before them. Dalgliesh recovered quickly: “Blanche.”
“Thought I spotted you earlier,” she said. “Off duty, I hope?”
“Yes. Are you here professionally?"
“In a manner of speaking. Keeping tabs on the who’s who and the what’s what. One has to have fingers in many pies in the creative industry.”
Dalgliesh turned to Emma. “This is Blanche Fielding, my agent.”
“Hello. Emma Lavenham.” They shook hands.
“Ah yes. It was my desk your invite landed on, so I could forward to Adam’s home address. Though if you’re trying to get him to write a review or anything literary, I will warn you: you’ll have to be patient. He moves at his own pace.”
Emma smiled. “It’s worth the wait, though?”
“Oh yes, it always is in the end,” Blanche replied. “Adam’s one of our best sellers.” Then, to Dalgliesh: “You’re not thinking of turning to theology, are you?”
“No.” He glanced at Emma. “Dr. Lavenham was a consultant on a case.”
“I see.” Blanche studied the two of them briefly, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Well, I’d be fully supportive if you wanted to explore a new muse.” She placed her hand lightly on Dalgliesh’s arm. “It’s good to branch out, find new depths.” A pause for effect, “And bring in more readers.”
The women laughed. Dalgliesh took an uncertain sip of his champagne but said nothing.
“Lovely to meet you, Emma. Good turnout.”
“And you, Blanche. Thank you.” When Blanche was out of earshot, Emma turned back to Dalgliesh, who was staring into the crowd, expression unreadable. “Sorry, I had no other way of finding you …”
“It’s fine.” He looked back to her, eyes softened.
“Adam, we should –” she began, only to be foiled by one of the gallery staff who’d appeared at her side.
“Dr. Lavenham?” The young woman glanced at Dalgliesh. “Sorry to interrupt. But can I borrow you for a moment? Clarence Ansley has a question about the Burlamacchi.”
“Of course. I’ll be there in a minute.” Emma turned again to Dalgliesh, apologetic. “I’m sorry.” She didn’t move away, but searched his face, finding a flicker of that earlier intensity. “Are you staying awhile longer? We could … have a drink after, if it’s not too late.”
An infinitesimal pause, as one takes before a jump. “Alright.”
“Good.” She smiled up at him, face alight. “I’ll come find you.”
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