It was Jack's weekend to work, so Sunday dinner was in the evening; the Collins family were absent, because it conflicted with the children's bedtime, but it did allow for his mother to arrive in town. When visiting she stayed with Ivy in Jack's small flat; the arrangement would no doubt change in the new year, as Jane intended to take the second bedroom, but for now it gave her a much-appreciated freedom. She arrived bearing a clootie pudding—"For Christmas dinner," she explained as she passed it over, "I cannae abide the Australian fruit cakes."—and a large pile of presents to place beneath the tree.
Mr. Butler was rather prodigiously proud of his fruitcake, and Jack briefly wondered whether they might be subjected to the most civil rendition of fisticuffs the world had ever seen. Thankfully, Jane came bounding down the stairs at the exact moment, hugging Mairi and asking how her trip to Darwin had gone and whether Ivy was coming to dinner as well.
"Very well and aye, lassie," Mairi said with a wink. "She's jes' coming with more gifts."
Jane headed out to greet her friend, and Mairi came to embrace Jack next. There was a scuffle from behind him, and she looked down the hall.
"The wee bairn's still here?"
Turning to find Anthony standing down the hall, Jack nodded. It hadn't occurred to him to actually warn his mother. "Ahh, yes. The—"
"Say nae more," Mairi said, handing Jack her hat and coat and moving down the hall. "Hullo, Anthony. Do you remember me?"
Anthony stiffened, shooting Jack a glance. Jack nodded in response, but it did not seem to carry the reassurance intended; Anthony pulled Cleopatra closer to him and watched Mairi suspiciously, shifting backwards as he did so. When Phryne emerged from the kitchen behind him, greeting Mairi warmly, he took the opportunity to bolt behind her legs and resume his watchful gaze from the relative safety.
"Squirrel!" Phryne scolded. "This is Jack's—this is Mrs. Robinson. Say hello."
Anthony shook his head, and Phryne rolled her eyes.
"Sorry, Mairi. He's not very fond of new people at the moment," she said. "Anthony, off to bed. Jack will be in to read you a story in a moment."
Mairi turned and half-raised an eyebrow at Jack, and he gave a barely perceptible shake of his head in response: Later. It was so quick Phryne didn't seem to notice the exchange, touching the boy's shoulder to send him towards his room before heading to the parlour while asking Mairi what she would like to drink. Jack followed Anthony to bed, settling him in with a story and a song—he tried not to imagine what his mother would say to hear his childhood lullaby in this context—before joining the others in the parlour. After a drink Mr. Butler announced dinner and they all moved towards the dining room. His mum caught Jack's arm just before he left the room, keeping him back.
"Jackie?"
"It's a long story, mum."
"Make it quick then," she countered, and Jack sighed.
"It's taken longer than expected."
"And?"
"That's it."
"That's nae a 'long story'," she pointed out.
"Nothing has changed."
"Are you certain?"
"Mother!"
"I'm jes' asking. That dinnae look like that on your birthday, dear."
Jack pinched the bridge of his nose; his mother did have her moments. He wondered whether he should reiterate that they were not interested in having children regardless of how Phryne's interactions with the boy "looked", then decided his mother would just see it as a reason to debate.
"I believe Mr. Butler has made beef bourguignon," he said. "We best go through."
—
Phryne's birthday fell on a Wednesday. She arranged for a long luncheon with some friends from society; Squirrel clung to her especially tight that morning, still unwilling to leave her side without a fuss after her trip, but between Mairi, Dot and the Collins children he was sufficiently distracted for her to make her escape to the boudoir to dress, and then to leave the house.
An opportunity to meet up for good food and laughter and several glasses of champagne was exactly what was required. She parked the Hispano and walked into the Windsor, heading directly for the restaurant; Madeleine and Viola were already there, and Josephine arrived shortly after.
"Wherever have you been, darling?" drawled Viola. "It's been so terribly dull without you."
Phryne gave an abridged version of events, and the women laughed.
"You and a child, Phryne? What a hoot!" giggled Madeleine, and Josephine shook her head.
"Isn't that what nannies are for? I hardly see Charles and Mary unless I want to."
Mary, Phryne recalled, was hardly older than Agnes and Anthony. She'd never quite understood why Josie had opted to have the children; neither she nor her husband seemed to pay them any mind. It always seemed more logical to avoid it than to carry on the way they did. Not that she felt parents should give up all their interests—she rarely gave it any thought at all, but when she did she was quite adamant that they should not—but to not alter in the least? Incomprehensible when it was easier to avoid it altogether.
"Exceptional circumstances," Phryne said, waving her hand. "Really, I'd rather talk about anything else. Tell me, what delightful bits of gossip have I missed?"
It was a guaranteed method of changing the topic, and the women happily began telling Phryne all she had missed with the downturn in her social events. Such downturns did happen—it was the nature of her work in both investigations and charity commitments—and it was always a delight to catch up. The meal lasted several hours, and by the end the women were discussing going dancing that evening. Phryne declined; she had a dinner with Jack arranged.
"Perhaps for New Years," she laughed. "My plans for this evening would get us evicted, even from The Green Mill."
Viola guffawed; there really was no other word for it.
"I never understood what you saw in that policeman of yours," she said, "but it must be something else. You're still utterly besotted; if I didn't love you so much I would find it nauseating."
Phryne smiled, thinking of Jack; she had not thought herself the sort who swooned over a man, but he was exceptional. A partner, a counterweight, a marvelous lover. Good and kind and honourable. Wildly intelligent, wickedly funny, and wonderfully wanton. She was, though it went against her nature, very thankful that he had stayed in step. Still, there were some sentiments she was disinclined to share.
"Have you seen the man's hands?" she asked instead. "There are some things a woman just needs to keep for herself."
That seemed to placate her friends; they laughed again as they hugged and said their goodbyes, and Phryne returned home. Mr. Butler greeted her at the door, taking her coat and asking if she cared for a drink. When she declined with a puzzled glance—several glasses of champagne were more than enough for the moment, and her butler would usually know that, even if it was almost time for evening cocktails—he informed her that Dorothy, Mrs. Robinson, and the children had borrowed her old gramophone from the attic and transformed the nursery into a ballroom.
"Thank you, Mr. B," she said, heading towards the stairs.
She paused at the bottom step, debating whether to retreat to her room, but turned and moved towards the nursery instead; she paused very briefly in the door, watching Dot and Mairi waltzing—not well, Phryne would have to admit, but waltzing—with Aggie and Anthony in their arms. Theo watched suspiciously from the floor as the toddlers laughed at every turn and flourish. As the song finished Anthony was left facing the door, and spotted her.
"Mims!" he shouted, struggling until Mairi set him down. "Mims! Mims!"
"Hello, miss," said Dot. "We've been having a lovely time this afternoon. I don't think Anthony even noticed you were gone."
Considering the boy had launched himself at Phryne and was now securely attached to her leg, Phryne had some doubts. But he was smiling, and that would suffice; she couldn't quite forget how tightly he had held on to her when she'd come back from Paringa, as if he thought she would disappear any moment.
"I can see that, Dot," she said, then a thought struck her. It would be a shame to waste the music. "Seeing as we now have enough partners for everyone, perhaps another dance or two?"
And that was how Jack found them an hour later; they had progressed to jazz tunes that gave the children more freedom in their steps, and Phryne was swaying to a particularly upbeat rendition of I Got Rhythm when there was a cough at the door. He didn't say a word; the amused twitch of his mouth said it all for him. She shifted Anthony to the floor and moved towards him.
"Should I be worried?" Jack asked, nodding to where Anthony stood rooted. "Stealing my dance partner?"
"Not at all, darling," she grinned, reaching for his hand and pulling him into the room. "He keeps stepping on my toes."
—
There was always a lunch held at Wardlow on Christmas Eve; it allowed the family to celebrate together before being flung to all corners for the day itself. Dot and Hugh's mothers seemed to engage in a battle to host every year, leading to the entire Collins family suffering through a mad dash across the city and two large meals. Cec and Alice and little June would visit her family out of town, often with Bert in tow—the latter grumbled mightily and went anyway. Ivy would return to her mother's place for an extended visit. Some years Jack worked Christmas day, though not this year. The Christmas Eve tradition was an opportunity to surround themselves with their chosen family.
Phryne was overseeing the final preparations early that morning when the telephone rang.
"I'll get it, Mr. B," she said cheerfully. "You keep…trussing that turkey."
She went into the hall.
"Fisher-Robinson residence," she said. "Phryne speaking."
The connection was full of interference and the accent wasn't Australian.
"Miss Fisher? It's Arnold Purbrook."
"Arnie?" she asked. "Whatever are you doing calling on Christmas eve?"
"It's still the 23rd here," her England-based solicitor said. "And I thought you'd appreciate this news regardless of the date."
"It's not father, is it?"
"I did say appreciate."
Phryne laughed. Arnold Purbrook had been a family friend and ally against her father's attempts to marry her off before she had moved to Australia, and they retained a fondness and intimacy of old friends despite the years and distance.
"Whatever is it?"
"News regarding Helen Fox's next of kin."
Phryne sunk down onto the seat beside the telephone table, searching it for a pen and paper.
"Phryne?"
"I'm here, Arnie," she said, finally spotting the pen directly in front of her. "You said you've found them?"
She moved the pad of paper closer to her and placed the pen to it in preparation.
"Not quite, I'm afraid. There was only an elderly uncle, and he's in no shape to take the boy in. I've already sent off a telegram to your Welfare offices and a copy of the entire investigation via the post, but I believe you can fairly say that Anthony Fox has no kin to take him in. I imagine that's a relief, in some ways; he can enter the system now."
"Ahh, yes," she said absently, looking at the line she'd drawn through the word family. Her voice was steady when she spoke again. "Yes, that's quite a relief. Better to go now than to wait another month or more for family to arrive via ship."
"Yes," agreed Arnie.
"Are you certain?" she asked. "I would hate—"
"I do know how to perform my job."
"Yes, yes, of course," Phryne said, giving a light laugh. "I do so like to be thorough."
"It has all been managed here," he said. "Now, if you don't mind, it is getting late and I must head home."
"Of course. Give my love to Clara and the girls," Phryne said. "Goodbye."
When the telephone was returned to its cradle, she stayed in her seat for a moment. Well, right. Yes. That was sorted. She smoothed the skirt of her dress, pen still in hand, and laughed at herself for the absent-mindedness. Of course nothing would happen just yet, with the holidays and all, and finding an adoptive family would likely take some time, but it was done.
"Not out of the woods just yet," she chided herself, heading back towards the kitchen to continue overseeing the luncheon preparations.
—
The guests began arriving for lunch around noon; Ivy and Mairi came first, joining Jack and Anthony in the garden. Jane came out shortly after, taking a place next to Ivy and starting a conversation about arrangements for the new year. Phryne's cabbies were next—he'd forged an antagonistic friendship with Bert, though they would both deny it, and Cec was so good-natured that it was impossible not to like him, and his wife and infant daughter were just as amiable. Prudence barged in with her usual aplomb and immediately set up court in the best-positioned chair; she called Doctor MacMillan over to discuss hospital issues when the latter arrived.
The Collins family came last, running late; poor Dot looked frazzled, bemoaning several little instances that had delayed their arrival. It was so unlike her usual cool composure that Jack wondered if she was quite well. Before he could ask, Phryne came out of the house, hugging her friend and murmuring some words he didn't catch. Whatever they were, Dot visibly relaxed and took a seat in one of the chairs he had put out that morning.
Jack watched it all play out from near the kitchen door, waiting to aid Mr. Butler with the food once it was prepared. It was a gorgeous summer day; not too hot as to be unbearable and with the scent of blossoming flowers in the air. The three mobile children were chasing a ball—Ant and Aggie running, Theo crawling desperately behind—and laughing; it brought to mind gatherings of Jack's own childhood, neighbours and cousins and him and Dan, and dreams from early in his marriage. He closed his eyes and allowed the sun and the sounds to wash over him.
"Penny for your thoughts, Jack," Phryne said from somewhere to his left; he hadn't heard her approach.
"It's a beautiful day."
Her arm slipped around his.
"It is," she agreed. "Good food—Mr. Butler will be serving soon, he's just waiting for a pie to cool—and good company."
He opened his eyes; her attention was drawn to the scene before her, all the people she loved, and her eyes were soft and a contented smile curled up the corner of her lips. Every time he thought he could not love her more, that he could not find her more beautiful, she surprised him.
"The very best company," he agreed. "Did I hear the telephone earlier?"
Her lips quirked, a tiny little tell; he'd used it last time he'd goaded her into a game of poker—cards were apparently slightly more palatable if played for clothing—and she'd never realised.
"Ah, yes," she said. "It was Arnie Purbrook. My solicitor in London?"
Jack nodded. "What did he have to say?"
"He was telephoning about Squirrel," she said quietly. "He's confirmed that there is no next of kin."
Suddenly the day did not seem so warm. It had been a long time coming, Jack knew that; it should not have been such a surprise. He sought out Anthony, who had stopped running after the ball and was mid-conversation with Prudence Stanley; he was smiling broadly as he chattered in his own way, a far cry from the terrified child Jack had found at a crime scene two months before.
"It doesn't seem possible, does it, to be that young and have no family at all?"
He turned to Phryne, who was also watching the boy intently.
"That's not quite true though," she said, her eyes never leaving Anthony. "It's not true."
There was something in her voice, pitched low and uncertain.
"Phryne?"
She turned, worrying her lip lightly. There were…oh god, were those tears in her eyes? He could count on one hand the number of times he had seen her cry. He froze, uncertain how to respond.
"It's not true, Jack. It would be much more convenient if it was, but it's not."
"What are you saying, love?"
She took a deep breath, exhaling so sharply her hair fluttered in the wake.
"He…" she gestured the tableau before them. "He has us."
"Phryne?"
She could not possibly be saying what she seemed to be saying. Perhaps she intended for the Collinses to take him in. Or Cec and Alice. Or nobody at all, that it was simply a sentiment about the rag-tag family that was drawn into her orbit for a time before continuing onwards. But she could not mean that. Phryne turned, facing him, and laid her hand against his forearm as if reading his mind and ready to prove that she was sincere.
"Do you remember, last year, when you said… you said it would be different if I was questioning whether I wanted it."
He did. He also remembered being utterly certain she did not.
"He has us," Phryne repeated. "And I don't know how it happened, or why, and I don't… I don't know. Not for certain. But he has us, and that matters somehow."
Jack was silent for a moment. Contemplative.
"We'd have to get married," he said finally. "Damned paperwork will be the death of me."
Phryne nodded. "I know."
"And we can't just… we need to talk about this. Properly. If you want this."
"I'm not entirely certain I have a choice, Jack."
She gave a small laugh, too brittle to be sincere.
"You always have a choice," he said, slipping his arm around her waist and pulling her close to press a kiss against her hair. "But it's not always an easy one."