He should probably announce himself rather than continue standing in the shadows. But this is a rare opportunity and somehow he cannot bear to bring it to an end.
Having been directed into the back garden by Mr Butler, Jack had let himself into the yard and wandered past the rose garden and the agapanthus, searching for a certain shock of dark hair and pale skin.
He had found her beside a clump of gardenia bushes, her nose buried in a waxy white bloom. With her face shaded by a white straw hat and her fingers protected by lambskin gloves, Phryne was wandering between the blooms – deadheading here; taking a cutting for the dining table there - utterly unaware that Inspector Robinson was watching her from the shade of a nearby rhododendron.
The morning sunlight falling on Phryne's hat makes patterns of light on her face through the straw. From where Jack stands watching, he can see the profile of her face as she closes her eyes and inhales the perfume of a perfectly formed flower. A sweet smile pulls at the corners of her mouth and Jack smiles to see it.
This is the Phryne Fisher so few get to see. Not the vivacious hostess or the seductive flirt; without the mask of the bubbly troublemaker or the determined sleuth. For now, Phryne Fisher is under no pressure to perform for others. At this moment, she is simply a woman enjoying a beautiful morning in a sunny garden.
When Phryne leans over to pluck at a dead bloom, Jack sucks in a breath at the sight of the pale skin that presents itself to his gaze. A smooth strip of skin between the waist of her trousers and the hem of her top is exposed as her blouse rides up with her movement. Unbidden, a vision of himself sliding a palm across that warm, soft skin fills Jack's mind. The waistband of Phryne's crepe trousers is loose and it would take Jack no effort at all to dip his fingers beneath to touch the top of the swell of Phryne's buttocks.
He shouldn't be doing this. He should step forward right now…clear his throat…avert his gaze…
Phryne lets her fingers ruffle petals and leaves as she moves to a clump of gerberas that have taken hold near the back wall. There is a faint smile on her face as she kneels to press her fingers against the soil and brush her cheek against the blooms as she studies the colours as a bee floats unnoticed nearby.
The complete lack of guile behind her actions makes Jack smile. It is one thing to be granted a glimpse of Phryne's bare body when she is playing a part for a case. It is quite another to be able to see her move with the grace and naivety of a woman who believes herself to be alone. Every smile, every tilt of her head is for no-one but herself.
When she brushes sweat from her face with the back of one hand, a streak of dark soil leaves its mark across her pale skin. In the heat of the garden, Phryne's white georgette blouse has begun to cling with to the skin of her breasts and back and she looks for a moment like a Grecian statue of a goddess long forgotten but still awe-inspiring. The soil across her cheek and under her fingernails lends an air of human fragility to her form and Jack reflects that he has never seen her look more at ease.
The paperwork he came to discuss can wait: he would not interrupt this moment for the world.
Turning silently, Jack leaves via the garden gate, a sense of peace smoothing the habitual worries of his day.