Chapter 2 - In which Rebecca considers pigeons
After glancing across the chessboard, Rebecca picked up a rook, circled it in the air a moment, then placed it firmly down upon a square before one of Phileas' knights.
"Ah!" replied Phileas with glee. He moved his hand to touch the nearest bishop, then paused, his fingers hovering over the piece as he scanned the board again. After a few seconds, he sat back in his chair in the salon of the Aurora, touched a finger to his lips, and began to study the board more intently.
Realizing that he might be there for some time, Rebecca rose to her feet and walked across the cabin to a chair upon which rested a leather courier's pouch. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands, tracing the royal seal with a fingertip. "I think this takes all the fun out of it."
"What takes the fun out of what?" asked Phileas absently.
He was still studying the chessboard when she turned. "Flying. I rather miss the old days of rail missions, racing on horseback through the countryside--"
"Risking life and limb at every opportunity?" Phileas shot her an annoyed glance, then turned his chair slightly, as if to get a better perspective on the board. "You didn't have to volunteer for messenger duty."
"I didn't 'volunteer.'" Seating herself at the other side of the board again, courier pouch in her hands, Rebecca sighed. "And you needn't have agreed to take the Aurora to Toulon on my behalf."
"So, now it's my fault?" He reached forward again, the hint of a smile hovering over his lips, his fingers nearly touching a pawn well into his opponent's territory . . . but he stopped before grasping it and sank back into his chair. "The next time you've a need to be somewhere impossibly dangerous immediately, I'll be certain to say no."
"That's not what I meant." She turned the pouch over in her hands again, wondering what was inside - probably nothing more incendiary than a laundry list of daily tasks and a handful of francs to cover the ruffled nerves of the British agent in Toulon. "There's no challenge to this."
Passepartout entered with a rolling tray - there was a decanter of brandy, two glasses, and a small plate of cheese and grapes on the upper level.
"You agree with me, don't you, Passepartout?"
The valet stopped in mid-movement, his hand on the neck of the decanter. "I-"
"That's not fair, Rebecca," said Phileas sharply. "After all, Passepartout has no idea what we're talking about."
Rebecca caught the smile Passepartout tried too quickly to hide, and smiled herself, watching as he poured the brandy into a snifter and handed it to Phileas. "I would be thinking that Miss Rebecca is not happy at not being shooted at."
"You would be correct, in a manner of speaking," agreed Rebecca, motioning with her hand to indicate that she wanted less brandy than he was prepared to give her. She was on duty, after all.
She swirled the nearly transparent liquid inside the glass as she lifted it; the brandy adhered briefly to the sides before slipping back to the bowl again. "There's no challenge in flying to Toulon. Certainly, the other side could send someone to intercept the pouch, but with Chatsworth monitoring all of the telegraphs now, they'd never be able to get a message out to warn them when I was arriving and what I was carrying."
"Pigeon," said Passepartout.
Phileas stopped the glass halfway to his lips. He peered over it at his valet. "Pardon?"
"Messenger pigeons," explained Passepartout. "Little birdies with the massages tied to their legges." He flapped his arms and made a decent attempt at cooing.
"Thank you, Passepartout, I believe we get the idea." Phileas shook his head, then returned his attention to the chessboard.
Rebecca was hard-pressed to keep from laughing and instantly felt cheered by the suggestion. "I suppose they are faster than the Aurora, homing pigeons?"
"They could be," Passepartout admitted, stopping the decanter. He picked up the plate of cheese and offered it to her. "If we are not to be traveling the fastest we could go, and we are not, there are pigeons that are fasterer than us."
Taking a piece of cheese, Rebecca leaned against the chair back. "I suppose one could shoot pigeons--"
"Some are using hawks and falcons," Passepartout informed her. "The little pigeons do not see them and they come swooped--" he lifted one hand high above his head and then dropped it down upon his lower wrist to demonstrate "and catch the messenger birdies." He turned his left palm over and let it hang limply to indicate the demise of the bird in question. "Of course, that is not so good for the little birdies."
"Carrier pigeons . . . that would be most helpful," said Rebecca thoughtfully. "I think we should keep a few homing pigeons on the Aurora. And perhaps a hawk. What do you say, Phileas?"
"I say that until you can positively distinguish between a 'good' pigeon and a 'bad' pigeon, a hawk is completely out of the question." He leaned over the board again, never looking up. "Monsieur Reuters has been experimenting with the telegraph, but until he abandons his messenger pigeons in favor of a machine, I'd prefer not to anger him by intercepting his business. He's given me a few excellent stock tips in the recent past and he's not a man one wants as an enemy."
"Oh," answered Rebecca in disgust, as if dismissing his complaint. She had little time for his business interests.
Phileas looked up from the board long enough to give her a firm and piercing gaze. "No hawks."
She was tempted to stick her tongue out at him, but turned her attention instead to Passepartout, who was nibbling on pieces from the cheese plate. "Do you know anything about pigeons, Passepartout?"
"I was once to training the pigeons for racing," he admitted. "There is not too much difference."
Phileas looked up at the word 'racing.' "Are there, by any means, wagers placed on racing pigeons?"
"Oh, of course," answered Passepartout, with a slight shrug. "From London, to Antwerp, to Paris." He looked over at Rebecca. "They are very busy little birdies."
"I would imagine they are." Rebecca bit her lower lip, her mind whirling with the possibilities. She glanced over at Phileas, who was still pondering the game they'd begun two hours before - best to put him out of his misery, soon. "I'd like to pick up some pigeons in Paris. It would make it far easier to communicate with Jules, in any case."
"What's wrong with the post?" asked Phileas. "Or in dire straits, there's always the telegraph."
Rebecca was more than happy Phileas was too preoccupied with his predicament to see the look of commiseration she shared with Passepartout. They were both well aware that Phileas had no real concept of money - he won and lost fortunes with ease and aplomb.
She cleared her throat. "Speaking of Jules, I was hoping we'd be able to stop and visit with him for a bit. I've been concerned about him lately."
"I assumed we'd stop in Paris." Then Phileas looked up, her words sinking in. "Concerned, about?"
"I don't think he's eating well."
"He certainly has a healthy appetite when he's here," noted Phileas, his attention returning to the chess pieces under his command. "Wouldn't you say so, Passepartout?"
"Oh, yes, master. If master Jules will be staying to be eating, I am certain to be making more than enough foods."
"That's not what I mean," said Rebecca crossly. Tossing the courier's pouch to the floor - the sound of it catching Phileas' attention for at least a minute, she could almost feel him following her with his eyes - she walked across the room and stood in front of a framed map of the world. Paris didn't seem so far from London, when one looked at the world as a whole. But Shillingworth Magna was centuries away from a small, writer's garret in a Paris rooming house.
"He's a student, Phileas. You've seen his clothes; in fact, you've seen his rooms."
"Room, actually," Phileas corrected.
Rebecca turned. "That's what I mean. We should be able to do something for him."
Phileas looked up with cold eyes. Leaning back in his chair, he asked flatly. "And what could you do, that wouldn't insult his pride? I very much doubt he'd accept common charity, especially from us. Confine your philanthropic instincts to Shillingworth Magna and you won't risk losing Verne as a friend."
He was right, but that didn't mean she had to like it. Rebecca walked back to the chair on the other side of the chessboard and dropped into it, folding her arms. "That's a very unbecoming trait, Phileas - you needn't be nasty just because you're losing."
"As a matter of fact," he grinned at her and reached across the chessboard to move his queen. "I've won. Check."
Rebecca glanced down at the board, took his queen with her bishop, then tossed the piece into his hands. "You've lost. Mate."
"Mate?" Phileas scanned the board again as she watched, finally spotted the trap into which he'd been led, and snorted with disgust. He held out his empty brandy snifter and Passepartout filled it automatically. "I must remember never to play chess with you when you're bored."
There were a dozen things she could have said . . . and every one of them would have led to an argument. Instead, Rebecca covered her pretended yawn with her hand and then rose to her feet. "I think I'll retire."
Phileas pushed back his chair and stood as well - which caused her to smile inwardly. He was ever the gentleman, but never more so when he knew he'd angered her and she didn't fight back. Their shared childhood had included a legacy he well remembered, not showing her anger was often a portent for some insidious method she'd devise to get even.
Nodding, she wished him, "Good-night," then watched as he seated himself cautiously. Let him stew - even though she had no intention of paying him back in kind, this time.
At least, not at the moment.
A thought struck her and instead of heading for the staircase, she touched Passepartout on the shoulder. "A moment of your time, Passepartout. If we're going to be picking up Jules, I wanted to make certain we've accommodations ready for him."
"Of course, Miss Rebecca."
She saw Phileas glance over as they left, his curiosity aroused - she never bothered with any of the domestic arrangements aboard the Aurora, knowing the Passepartout had a much better grasp of those things - but he returned his attention and his scowl to the chessboard.
The moment the kitchen door closed behind them, Rebecca asked, "Do you remember the blue blanket? The one we sent home with Jules that time?"
"Yes, when he went accidentally swimming." Passepartout grinned. "He was not going to be drying for some time, I think."
Her smile widened at the memory. "Thankfully, the lake wasn't all that deep. Our Monsieur Verne is obviously not a water baby." Then she cleared her throat. "Has he -um- returned the blanket yet?"
"No, I am not thinking so." Passepartout looked around the kitchen, as if he were mentally cataloguing everything stored on the Aurora. Then he shook his head. "No. It is not being here."
"Good - uh, what I mean is, if Jules should try to return the blanket, you're not to take it. It isn't ours."
Passepartout stared at her. "Of course it is yours, Miss Rebecca. You just saying to me that is so."
She took a breath. "No," she said firmly. "You're to tell him that he's mistaken. It isn't ours." She lowered her lids and nodded. "He's to keep it, is that understood?"
After a brief moment, Passepartout brightened and nodded. "Of course. Never have I been seeing that stranger blanket in all my life. It must be belonging to master Jules."
"Perfect." Rebecca touched him on the shoulder again. "Thank you, Passepartout." She turned to leave.
"Oh, Miss Rebecca?" As she looked back at him, he hesitated, then gestured toward the cabinets in the kitchen. "I would be thinking that after we have been eaten, there is always foods left overs and others that will be spoiling if they are not being eaten. But with just you and master here, and me, there is not enough peoples to be eating the foods. It is not being right to waste and if master Jules would be taking it with him, perhaps giving it to some of his friends . . . ?"
"How very clever, Passepartout," she said softly. "And how very kind."
He blushed and ducked his head slightly. "It is just that I am hearing what you say. I am knowing what it is like to be hungry. As for what master says--?" He shrugged his shoulders, as if to excuse the comments Phileas made earlier. "Master Phileas, he is not bad - he is not understanding about such things because he is not knowing."
"Oh, he knows," answered Rebecca, her tone still soft. "He knows very well what it is to be famished."
She shook her head, thinking of the times Phileas might come in from a mission, his eyes ravenous, and tuck into whatever food was available. But that was only secondary - it was approval from his father for which he truly hungered. And which he never received.
But she wasn't about to say that to Passepartout. Not now.
"He won't be knowing about the foods left overs," promised Passepartout. "And if he should be asking," another shrug, "I tell him it is better foods is eaten than thrown over the side after it is being spoiled."
"Good. Thank you, Passepartout."
"Thank you, Miss Rebecca. You are a very kind lady. And you are being a good friend to master Jules."
Her hand on the doorknob, Rebecca sighed softly and looked down. "I would hate to lose him. I have a feeling Jules will need every friend he has."
"It is lucky that he is having such good friends as you and master Phileas, then."
"I hope so." She met his eyes again and smiled warmly. "Good-night, Passepartout."
"Good dreams, Miss Rebecca."
As she left the room and headed upstairs, Rebecca wondered how good of a friend she, and even Phileas, could be to Jules Verne. After all, saving his life from the League of Darkness was one thing - a bit of adventure, not so easily done, but accomplished in the end.
However, saving Jules from a life of near poverty in Paris and from his own pride long enough to allow him to fulfill the promise inherent in him . . . that was another matter entirely.
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End of Chapter Two
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