Charity in the Age of Modern Marvels (4/15) ****

Chapter 4 - In which Phileas and Rebecca further discuss pigeons

Bloody, foolish, stupid, imbecilic--

"Frustrated, cousin?"

Rebecca froze a smile on her face as she closed the shop door and turned to face Phileas on the street, pretending to have just run into him - a spy had to keep up appearances, after all. "How nice to see you in Toulon. Are you here for business?"

"No, just for the espionage."

Remembering that her reticule carried a rather effective set of brass knuckles, she swung it in Phileas' direction as she turned to walk down the street, but he deflected the impact with a quick maneuver of his walking stick.

"Careful," he warned, walking beside her and wearing his genteel morning smile. "You might hurt someone."

"That was the intent. Nice defensive move, by the way."

"Thank you." He nodded toward her, accepting the compliment.

Rebecca cast a look at him from the corner of her eye - Phileas did have a particular spring in his step. He was wearing a smartly pressed, gray morning suit, with a white carnation decorating his lapel. Beside him, she felt perfectly dowdy in the dark magenta jacket and skirt she'd chosen in which to tour the town.

Then again, he hadn't just emerged from beneath the pier after having spent an hour crawling underneath a ship's hull, either.

At least, she didn't think so. "You were gone from the Aurora before breakfast this morning."

"I had an appointment with a banker in town." He doffed his hat to a passing lady, then rolled his eyes. "Tedious business. Transfer of funds."

"Well, don't let me keep you." She quickened her step and turned down a side street as if to elude him, but he neatly dashed in front of her, placed his palm against the side of a brick building to block her progress, and smiled pleasantly.

"No need - it's all been taken care of. I decided to see if you were free for lunch."

"Passepartout is--?"

"Shopping, I believe. He said something about laying in stores for our Paris stopover." He smiled slyly. "I suspect that has something to do with your plans to keep Verne from starving." Phileas offered her his arm. "There's a lovely little bistro down the Rue whatever-it-is; I thought you might find it charming."

"Perhaps I would." She accepted his arm with a modicum of grace.

Toulon wasn't Paris, but the port city was lovely on a sunny autumn afternoon. There were flowers still in bloom in the window boxes along the fashionable streets and the salt-tinted air from the harbor just screamed adventure.

"I thought you might enjoy a stroll," said Phileas amiably. "Business not go as planned?"

Rebecca frowned instantly as he returned her concentration back to the buffoon she'd just left. "Good help is becoming even harder to find."

"If you're counting on Chatsworth to do the hiring--"

"He had no choice." She shot Phileas a resigned look. "Landless younger son of a peer. Too vile for the clergy, too stupid for law, too corrupt for business."

"Then by all means, trust him with the defense of Queen and country," added Phileas darkly. He wrested his arm from hers, took a step away in disgust and then turned back toward her. "Now you've spoiled my appetite entirely."

"I do apologize." She took his arm this time, pausing before a flower stall for a moment. "And we do need you, Phileas."

He moved to stand behind her, his voice soft, but steady. "You know my answer to that, so let's not have a row on the boulevard, shall we?"

"Hmmmn."

There was a nice spray of small violets and baby's breath. Plucking the wrapped flowers from the hands of shop girl at the stall, Rebecca whirled away, only barely keeping tabs on Phileas, who had taken some coins from his pocket to pay for them. Pigeons had gathered on the far side of the street and she turned her attention there, watching the brown, white and gray birds strut and coo as they pecked at a crust of bread in the gutter.

"Pigeons," she noted, as Phileas rejoined her.

"Have you added bird watching to your talents?"

She gave him a sharp look, then turned her attention to the pigeons again. "You'd said something about Mr. Reuters using pigeons to deliver messages? I should think having two pigeons boarded on the upper deck wouldn't be too much of a strain on the Aurora. Passepartout says he knows something about them. Perhaps he could train them?"

"If not, he could cook them. I haven't had squab for--"

"Phileas!" It was only after he turned his head away, smiling, that she realized he was teasing. "You are in a good mood today," she noted, suddenly suspicious. "You haven't by any chance won a wager?"

"No. Standard stuff. Just sent a quick note off to an old friend." He turned his hand in the air, as if counting off the errands he'd accomplished. "Sold a few stocks, purchased a few stocks, ordered some limestone for the patio at Shillingworth Magna, purchased a brace of homing pigeons in Paris by wire--"

"You did what?" Rebecca stopped in the center of the street, grabbed his arm, and turned him to face her.

"I knew I wouldn't hear the end of it until you'd gotten a chance to test your theories on sending and receiving messages on the fly." When she stared at him blankly, he gestured toward the pigeons with the walking stick. "Don't tell me you haven't come up with anything yet - they're likely to believe you more than I will. And, I'll admit, the idea of being able to receive racing results and placing bets while flying over God knows where certainly appealed to me."

It was his way, to pretend the gift was meaningless, not for her use but his own. The anxiety hovered behind his eyes, the devil-may-care façade able to hide that from the world.

But not from her. She'd grown up with him. She'd watched him perfect that cavalier response. Rebecca knew if she responded in kind, he'd be ever so disappointed.

She couldn't do that to him.

"I think," she said softly, "this is one of the nicest presents you've ever given me."

"Truly?" He beamed, then cleared his throat and looked away, regaining his composure. "One of the least expensive, at any rate. You should have told me you fancied pigeons ages ago - you could have saved me a small fortune in silks and geegaws."

"I happen to like the occasional geegaw," she admitted.

Rebecca didn't add - 'particularly when it comes from you,' but from his reaction, he seemed to hear it anyway. He offered her his arm and they finally crossed the street, to the obvious relief of an approaching cart driver.

"What color are they?" she asked.

Phileas turned a mild stare at her. "Pardon?"

"The pigeons. Are they brown pigeons, gray pigeons, white pigeons, black pigeons--?"

"Are there black pigeons?"

She shrugged. "I have no idea. Black pigeons would be crows, wouldn't they?"

"Beastly birds." He gave a slight shudder, as if one of the mentioned crows had lit on the shoulder of his morning coat. "As for your pigeons - they'd be average, ordinary, pigeon-colored pigeons, one would suspect."

"They won't be ordinary after Passepartout trained them."

"Ah, there we must agree." He shot her another smile. "Remarkable fellow, Passepartout, with or without pigeons. Do you think I pay him enough?"

"No."

Phileas sniffed, his nose rising in the air as if affronted. "Hmmn."

Raising the flowers to her lips to hide a smile, Rebecca caught sight of two pigeons sitting together on a fence. "You mentioned that you'd purchased a 'brace' - two males or two females?"

"I have no idea. Do you think it matters?"

"They might be more comfortable on the upper deck if they were a male and a female."

"Perish the thought," announced Phileas. "With only Jules and his notebook playing chaperone to a pair of love-starved pigeons?" He chuckled under his breath. "Then again, it might mean fresh eggs for breakfast--"

She tapped his arm with her reticule in response to the comment; perhaps a bit harder than she meant because he pulled away with a cry of pain.

"Ow! Rebecca, what in blazes have you got there? A cannon?"

"Brass knuckles."

"Thank heavens. For a moment, I thought you were armed."

"Did I say that I wasn't?"

She arched an eyebrow as he glanced over at her and shook his head in mock dismay. It was only a pace or two before he gathered her arm again, resting her hand lightly on his own.

"What would be wrong with a pair of pigeons, a male and a female?" she pressed.

Phileas continued to stare straight ahead. "Well, think about it. It wouldn't be fair."

"How could it not be fair?" asked Rebecca. "They'd be two of a kind, eminently suited for one another. They could raise a family - you must admit it would be an inexpensive way to acquire more pigeons. They'd be perfectly happy . . . ."

"In the same cage."

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye - he was still looking straight ahead. The rhythmic tap of his cane on the stones as they walked was almost maddening. "They wouldn't spend all of their time in the cage. They're messenger pigeons. They'll be flying about, delivering messages."

"Common messages?"

"Yes."

"Dangerous messages?"

"Of course."

He stopped, faced her, and took her hands in his. "And what happens," he asked, "when one of them doesn't come back from delivering a message?"

Her voice failed her for an instant - that earlier ruddiness had gone from his cheeks and his voice had that odd, distant quality it assumed when he turned off all the brightness in his soul. His eyes were quiet and dead.

"That won't happen," she said weakly.

Phileas was wearing that oh-so-sad and superior smile. Without answering, he took her arm and began to walk again, because words weren't really necessary.

For it had happened, hadn't it?

Rebecca turned her attention to her surroundings, but the brightly colored flowers in their window boxes all seemed dull and funereal. If she looked closely, she could see the first hint of frost had done its damage. The blooms would probably last no longer than another night or so. There was still a chance to save them, if they were taken indoors.

"A cage," she said softly, "is not always a bad thing."

"Except when you're born with wings." He cleared his throat. "In future, I should probably confine my purchases to geegaws."

"That might be for the best."

He stopped suddenly, turning toward her and the pigeons lifted into the air around them. They were engulfed in a wing-battering windstorm, as the disturbed birds fluttered desperately to get out of their way. Absently, she noticed other pedestrians scattering, arms and hands rising to shield themselves from the sudden onslaught. Only she and Phileas stood unmoving, untouched in the center of the maelstrom, staring at one another.

The wings flapped, then fluttered, then fell still. Pigeons settled on window boxes, on the paving stones of the street, on the eaves of houses. A final few feathers drifted down around them in the sudden aftermath of silence.

"Here we are," he announced.

"Yes. Here we are." Rebecca glanced up at the wooden sign hanging from chains over the bistro, then met his eyes again. "There are times I wish I could hate you."

"There are times I wish you did." A slight, taut smile lingered at the edges of his lips. With the utmost of grace and propriety, he offered his arm to her. "Shall we go inside?"

Rebecca ducked her head graciously, took his arm, and accompanied him to lunch.

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End of Chapter Four

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