Previously: Safely at the Hotel Windsor with Jack, Phryne has just explained to him how a fairly recent acquaintance tried to rape her.

xoxox

Eventually he said "I know that this is probably the last thing that you feel like doing right now, but you ought to make a formal statement. The photographer–"

"No." She looked at him imploringly. "Jack, I can't make a statement. This can't go any further… You promised."

"Why? This bastard will rot in gaol for what he's done to you! I can't–"

"No, he won't. He was absolutely right when he told me it would do no good to report him."

He started to protest, but she cut him off. "If I do nothing, both of our lives will go on, and I can only hope that natural justice will catch up with him some day… But if I report this… He's an important man, from an influential family, with unlimited resources… He's widely liked, and has an unblemished reputation… Against me… A woman of inferior class and ambiguous morals, known for my unconventional lifestyle…"

"It makes NO difference, Phryne. What he did to you–"

"It DOES make a difference… As much as we all want to believe that anyone can get justice, it isn't true… And I'm sorry…" she tore her eyes away from his, "I know that I'M the one always campaigning for justice… That if this had happened to another woman, I would be the first to say that she ought to speak out… for herself, and other women… but it's… It's not just me I have to think about… My family – I would bring disgrace on them all… My parents… their reputation would never be recovered… Aunt P and Guy…"

"But surely your family would believe you?"

"Yes, perhaps… Probably… But at what cost?... Aunt P has lived her entire married life here… Where would she go if everyone she knew turned their backs on her? If the boards she sits on 'no longer required her services'? If the doctors who take care of Arthur started turning her away? Back to 'Old Blighty'? It would be just as bad… Worse… It's too late for her to start a new life."

She had a point, and he didn't like it at all.

"And Jane… She's just STARTING her life… He and I discussed her… He and Aunt Prudence probably discussed her… He knows about her, knows about her ambitions. He would see to it that she was turned away from any university within his reach. It's all she dreams about… and isn't that why I took her in? So that she could have a chance to live her dreams?" She looked him square in the eyes, and hers were full of fear and sorrow. "And he threatened–" She drew in a breath before it could turn into a sob. "He said I could never be there, with her, always… I could never keep her safe… He made it very clear, Jack… Very clear." She suddenly sounded so small. "It's best left…"

He didn't know what to say. A cold rage simmered in his belly. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The pig of a man was going to get away with it, and Phryne was going to let him. There was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He had promised her, and if he broke his promise and made a report, something even worse might happen. She might forgive him for anything else, but if something happened to Jane… he wouldn't be able to forgive himself either.

He bowed his head in defeat, before lifting her bloodied hand and placing the softest of kisses on the back of her fingers. He reached up and tucked a stray strand of black behind her ear, and pressed his lips to the crown of her head. "You know that I am never letting you out of my sight, ever again."

She chuckled painfully. "Don't worry, I don't think I'll be going anywhere for a while."

"So… what are we going to do with you? You really ought to go home. Mr Butler, Dot, Jane… they'll understand…"

"No. I can't tell them. I can't tell anyone… and I don't want them to see me like this, not tonight. Help me, Jack…" she pleaded, "You have to give me a cover story…"

He rubbed his face, and sighed. "I'll think of something… Not now, but I'll think of something… In the meantime… we need to get you cleaned up. You really ought to see a doctor…"

She shook her head. "…but I wouldn't mind a bath."

He had rummaged through the rooms as steaming water poured into the bath, and found towels and a fluffy white robe. He pondered the various salts and oils that were meant for the tub, and finally poured in a liberal dose of each. The smell was divine; perhaps it would calm her a little more before sleep. Another brandy probably wouldn't go astray either.

She rose from the sofa with difficulty, and he realised then that he probably ought to have taken off her shoes whilst she was sitting. She leaned against the table as he undid the buckles, and then he helped her to remove her coat. The rage returned as he saw the terrible welts that marked her wrists, and the bruises that had formed on her arms.

She removed her earrings and a necklace, but a ring remained stubbornly on her swollen finger, and she looked as if she might cry again. She stood hesitantly before him for a moment, then looked at him, her expression open. "I'm going to need some help…" She made a broad movement encompassing the remainder of her clothing. Oh.

He followed her into the bathroom, where she attempted, unsuccessfully, to undo the tiny hooks of her dress. Her battered, shaking fingers were simply not up to the task, and he realised that he really was going to have to help her. Hooks undone, he tried to work out how best to get it off her without doing further damage.

"Don't worry about the dress… I'll never wear it again…" His jaw clenched at the expression on her face, and she closed her eyes and tried to lift her arms so that he could lift it over her head. She was clearly in pain at the movement, and as per her instruction he paid little heed to the dress in attempting to remove it in the fastest possible time.

She had a silk slip and torn knickers on underneath, a shiny girdle and her ruined stockings. She put her hands down to her button garters, but again her fingers betrayed her. "Please…" She closed her eyes and waited as he slid the hooks that were still attached off their buttons, and pulled her stockings down to her ankles, wincing as he peeled them off the dried grazes on her legs.

She stepped out of them, and turned away from him, and he realised that she was waiting for him to slide off the slip. As he gripped the hem, once again she lifted her arms as best she could, groaning in protest at the pain.

"I'm going to need your help to get in, so…" she hooked the waistband of her knickers away from her body, and shimmied out of them, before turning to face him.

She was standing naked, only inches in front of him, and it was the most un-erotic moment he could imagine. Again, he felt sick to his stomach as he catalogued the many bruises that marked her body, the deep finger imprints above her left knee, and the scratches on her upper thigh that could only have been made by fingernails.

He felt as if he were looking at a beautiful butterfly that lay broken on the ground. He made a pained noise that he could not possibly have described later, and she gave him a small, sad nod in return, before reaching out for his shoulder.

"Here." For the second time tonight he swept her into his arms, and deposited her gently into the warm water. She sucked in several breaths as the salty water reached various cuts, and he cursed himself, but she read his mind, and gave him a reassuring smile. "Thank you… It really won't make it any worse… and I'm sure my aching muscles will be grateful."

As she soaked he retrieved her another brandy, and used the room's telephone to consult with Mr Wentworth on obtaining some ointment, which was then sent up with alarming speed. Returning to the bathroom, he had a sudden thought. "Would you like me to wash your hair?"

She looked at him gratefully. "I thought you'd never ask…"

She hummed with pleasure as he sat on the edge, behind her curved back, and massaged shampoo through her gritty hair, carefully avoiding the small bald patch that would no doubt be very tender. It occurred to him that this might be the most intimate moment of his adult life; there was nothing arousing about the experience, but he felt closer to her than he could remember feeling to another human being.

He had never done this for Rosie; she'd had a tendency to squeak and chide him if he even walked into the bathroom whilst she was in the tub. Even when he was injured, or just bone-tired, no-one had washed his hair for him since he was a child, and he could not remember the sensation specifically, but seeing the relaxing effect it was having on Phryne, he now supposed that it might be rather nice.

It startled him a little, but it was also reassuring. He had always found his attraction to Phryne slightly terrifying. This was not the time or the place, but she was a very beautiful and alluring woman, and he would be lying if he said that he didn't want her, just like every other man who crossed her path. At the same time, he couldn't actually imagine being with her; he could admit to himself that he really knew nothing of the sensual arts – surely he could never be her lover? And perhaps, beyond the haze of his physical attraction to her, theirs was a firm friendship, and nothing more?

If tonight had shown him anything, it was that he was now quite sure that it was so much more. Yes, he wanted their mysteries, and their whiskeys, and their lively banter. Yes, he desired her touch, her lips on his, and her perfume on his skin. But he also craved this simple intimacy; how nice it would be, at the end of a hard and terrible day, to feel her fingers on his scalp, as he poured his heart out to a sympathetic and loving ear.

Yes. There was no undoing this revelation, but for now it was something to be put in a box and pushed into a corner. He had no idea what effect tonight's events would have on her in the long-term; or even over the coming days and weeks. She would probably need him to simply be here for her; the only person who would know what she had been through. In the cold light of day she might push him away entirely. Only time would tell…

He retrieved the towels that he had placed in front of the fire, and dried her hair as best he could, before she rose, with care, and he lifted her cleanly onto the floor. She stood before him, as naïve as a child, as he wrapped another warm towel around her, dried her purpling, swollen face, and rubbed at her arms, her torso, her legs. Despite the warmth she was shivering; her residual fear and exhaustion were taking their toll.

With the greater proportion of the healing ointment now covering every mark he had found on her body, and wrapped in the fluffy robe, he tucked her into the huge bed, a pile of downy pillows around her. He made to leave the room, and she called out after him, her voice heavy with her need for sleep, but a little panicked nonetheless, "Where are you going?"

"I'm not going anywhere… I'll be right back… I promise."

Having used the bathroom, removed his shoes, and turned out the lights, he returned and climbed on top of the covers beside her.

She looked up at him with huge, sleepy eyes. "Thank you, Jack…"

He bent and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "I'll be right here…" He turned off the lamp, and her hand snaked across and found his. In a matter of moments her fingers relaxed in his, her breathing slowed, and he followed her into sleep.

He woke early, but despite a pressing need, he dared not move until she stirred – he couldn't bear to have her wake alone. When she did, she appeared so much worse, but also so much better; every bruise and scrape was now as fully formed as it was going to get, and she looked as if she had gone the distance with a champion boxer, but the swelling in her face had gone down a little, and colour had returned to her complexion.

He ordered her a large breakfast that could be eaten, if a little slowly, without too much pain – porridge, eggs, tomato, kedgeree – and tucked into a hearty serve himself; minus the porridge, and plus toast and bacon. As they ate, and as he assisted her through another muscle-soothing soak, they talked over the details of his plan. The story would be as close to truth as possible, up to a certain point.

She was walking when she had been confronted by several men who wanted to rob her. As attending the charity dinner had been her only plan for that night, she had not had her pistol or her dagger on her, and despite her best efforts they had managed to overpower her. She should not have continued to fight, but she'd had a little too much to drink, and it had seemed like a good idea at the time, so they had bound her hands in order to search her thoroughly. They had taken all of the jewellery she was wearing, the contents of her purse, her silver cigarette case, and her fur coat. They had left her in the laneway, from where she had made her way to a stranger's door, and telephoned Jack.

Jack had collected her, and being a friend, had thought it best that she make her complaint at Russell Street, rather than City South (and if anyone ever queried the lack of report, he would blame the poor records-keeping at the police headquarters). By the time they were finished it was the early hours of the morning, and exhausted, and not wanting to frighten her household with her terrible appearance at that time, she had asked Jack to take her to the Windsor.

Jack was not due back on duty until the evening, so they would have plenty of time today. He would take her pistol, fur, jewellery and cigarette case back to his own lodgings; at some later stage she would sell the fur, probably for a fraction of its cost, to someone who had no idea of its value, but would treasure it nonetheless. Her monogrammed cigarette case, ring (which was now able to be removed), necklace and earrings she would take to a jeweller whom she did not usually frequent; there she would ensure that the precious metals were melted down, and the stones either sold on or re-used.

The contents of her purse Jack would use to pay the bill, and the remainder he would take with him, to be returned to her, along with her pistol, the next time he saw her. He would smuggle her back down the service stairs and take her home, where they would have to convincingly tell this story, and everyone would be suitably horrified by what had taken place.

The car was a problem; he should not still have it at this hour, when he was not on duty. However, once word filtered around City South about what had (supposedly) happened to Miss Fisher, he doubted anyone would make complaint about his few hours' personal use of one of the station's most precious resources.

tbc