Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ. –Othello
The Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher did not, as a general rule, get jealous. She either wanted something and found a way to get it, or she decided on something better. So she wasn't entirely sure what it was she was feeling at the moment, but she couldn't help the nagging feeling that seemed to be creeping up on her. Not only had Detective Inspector Jack Robinson been involved in romantically in some way with that Italian woman from Stranos, but it appeared as though that relationship—one she had not until a few days ago knew existed—had been of some significance to him. There was clearly familiarity and mutual affection, trust and respect… they had at least developed some ability to speak with their eyes only, not having to say anything to make the other understand them.
How could Jack ever allow himself to become entangled with a family member from one of the world's most notorious criminal syndicates? He, who knew so of what the Camorra was capable of doing—he had only met her while investigating the brutal murder of the woman's husband by the group! And, while she was thinking about it, wasn't it highly suspect and possibly unethical for him to become involved with a victim's widow? What about the sacrosanct nature of objectivity in the situation—it was still an open case, perhaps the culprit was still out there and waiting to lull Jack into a false sense of security and would get away with the murder of that poor Italian man, all because Jack apparently liked the woman's sultry eyes and ability to cook.
Maybe Phryne couldn't speak Italian or cook, but she and Jack did have a particularly special partnership in their own right. And she knew how much he cared for her… only a few months back, after the Panderus and Sanderson and Fletcher and Rosie… hadn't Jack indicated his not inconsequential feelings for her? In fact, if Aunt P had not used that moment to showcase her innate ability to be in the wrong place at the absolute worst possible time, wouldn't she and Jack have…? Have what? Kissed? That seems all but certain. What more, Phryne just honestly wasn't sure.
And what about Jack's recent displays of jealousy? Hadn't he been the one who acted completely unreasonably when he assumed that the man staying at her place was her lover—rather than her distant, reprobate father? Jack was the one who got so worked up when he saw her wearing Captain Compton's overcoat—and really nothing else but it. (Well, that one may have been absolutely a fair point on his part, and they had ultimately worked it all out—but this wasn't about her right now, this was about Jack.) All this time he got so righteous and indignant about the long line of lovers being paraded past him and he had been hiding a woman of significance to him? Of what or how much significance, Phryne had no idea, wasn't that why she was upset? Jack had certainly seemed comfortable at Strano's, he was obviously well-acquainted with the various family members and associates there. He had an easy familiarity with the staff and members of the Fabrizzi family that was obviously more than from his being a "regular" customer.
With a loud and sharp sigh, Phryne snapped shut the book she had been trying to read for the last ½ hour—she completely lacked the ability to concentrate on anything but Jack and Signora Fabrizzi right now. Why was she so agitated? Just because she preferred to sample different delicacies and Jack preferred to have a steady and familiar meal—what did that matter to her?
Was it possible that the actual difference between her and Jack was more in regards to how they conducted their love affairs, rather than whether they had them at all? Phryne saw no shame in her encounters and therefore felt no need for discretion about them; something Mr. B and Dot had to adjust to quickly upon meeting her. She didn't believe that love or even serious emotional attachment was a necessary component to the equation in these regards, she was far more concerned with the physical connection, rather than an emotional one.
She had always assumed that Jack was a rather old-fashioned romantic—a man of chivalry and rather archaic morals and chastity. But perhaps she had been wrong and there was more than that. After all, by her observations, his marriage to Rosie had been effectively over for some time, did she truly believe he had lived the life of a monk in all that time? Or was he really just deceptively more liberal-minded than she had guessed—perhaps that was part of his outburst on the topic the night he found her father's cravat in her parlor.
Maybe that was his attraction to the Signora—was it possible that he had not actually given up so completely on the typical dream of a more traditional life, a life that he must have planned for at some point with Rosie? In fact, could it be that all this time she, Phryne, had been the dalliance, the flirtation with which to pass his time as he waited on his Widow to recover and end her mourning before he swept in and carried her off to some disgustingly adorable but simple little cottage on the outskirts of the city? Maybe the Widow was actually Jack's real second chance at all he had hoped for before—a cozy home, a wife, kids, an endearing Labrador puppy named after some cowboy in a Zane Grey novel.
She tried to picture him there, in his cottage with his family. She could see him with his sleeves rolled up as he wrestled on the carpet with an admittedly adorable little toddler—he had Jack's golden curls but Concetta's rich brown eyes. They tousled and played with the puppy joining in while Concetta was darning stockings or some similarly demure and appropriate homemaking skill, watching fondly and hoping they wouldn't break anything. Then, after the child was in bed, he and she would sit by the fire and he would read to her from Shakespeare or he would play the piano (softly, to not wake the child) and she would sing along some airy Italian song, as they shared disgustingly happy and content smiles. And then, when it was much later, they would take each other's hands and ascend the stairs to their bedroom together—
Her face was hot with frustration and anger, and she could feel the slight prick of a tear welling in her eyes. What was wrong with her? Now she was upset AND confused by her reactions to all of this and what she was feeling. She did not want that life—the idea of babies and sock darning and puppies… that felt constricting and tedious and held no appeal for her. She loved her independence and lack of accountability to anyone. But she was just now realizing that if she was free to do whatever she liked with anyone she liked, then of course Jack was too. And that realization was very suddenly and shockingly, an almost unbearable thought.
She loved their late night chats over checkers or cards; the whiskey or wine at the end of the day, after closing a particularly tricky case. Dot was not much for cards or checkers, but Jack was an excellent player and always gave a good showing against her. But, if he were with Concetta, those would almost certainly come to an end. And how long would that woman, or any woman really, allow Jack to continue working with a woman such as Phryne? She supposed she may still see him from time to time, perhaps Dot and Hugh would entertain at some point… although anything like that would likely be a more couples-focused event, wouldn't it? And then, once they each started their families, those gatherings would happen less and less often until Phryne's life was nothing but an endless string of talented and pleasing, but somewhat vapid lovers—it would be devoid of companionship, of affection and intellectual stimulation.
After Renee she had thought that was the best way to live. As Jane Austen had said, "I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not in my nature." When she loved someone—Dot, Jane, Mac, she loved them completely. With Renee she had loved him entirely and consumingly. Even thru the abuse, the madness and the horrible ways in which he constantly denigrated her- attempting to break her spirit entirely. Despite it all, she loved him still. Once she had escaped that situation, she knew the only real protection for a woman who wore her heart on her sleeve was to never again find herself in a situation like that. She would never again be victimized, she would never again allow a man to control her emotions, her actions or happiness ever again.
But that was maybe the most idiotic declaration in her life. Because, she realized, there was a man who's opinion she valued almost more than anyone's; a man who made her excited for the day; a man who she frequently wished to see, to be around so she could speak with him and hear his velvety voice and see his rich, warm eyes sprinkled with exasperation mixed with admiration. In fact, just sitting in his tiny and bare office at the City South Police Station or her small parlor with him brought a level of contentment and happiness that seemed just so natural and complete, she wouldn't want to be anywhere else, or with anyone else.
The realization hit her so completely and so suddenly she actually thought for a moment she was going to be knocked off her feet. With a soft groan she stumbled back to sit on her blue velvet chaise as she muttered "oh no!" Without knowing how or when, and almost against all promises she had made herself on the subject, she had fallen in love.
"Merde!"