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Chapter 6 - In which children are discussed

Rebecca paced the length of the Aurora's salon, all the while tapping the telegraph message against her palm. Occasionally she glanced out one of the portholes, but the sun had set well over an hour before.

"There's nothing to be done," said Phileas. "If Verne doesn't appear in the next hour, we'll simply leave without him."

"We can't. It would be rude, after Passepartout left the message with his landlady--"

"Who may never have given it to him."

Rebecca ignored the comment and pointed the telegraph message at him. "If Chatsworth expects me to find out whether our Ambassador to Spain is passing secrets to the French, I'll need assistance. And you, as you never fail to remind me, want nothing more to do with the service."

Folding his arms, Phileas raised an eyebrow at her. "And how, exactly, could an impoverished French law student be crucial to your plans?"

"The daughter."

"Whose daughter?"

"The ambassador's daughter." Rebecca paused for a moment, letting that sink in. "She's supposedly very partial to handsome, young French artists."

"Ah." Phileas nodded sagely. "I know the type - spinster, with a harelip. Have you no common decency, Rebecca? You'll be throwing him to a shark."

Rebecca took another turn across the floor. "She was presented to the Queen only last year, so she's probably a shade younger than Jules. And I've been told that she's quite pretty."

His pretense of disinterest was almost charming. "You do realize there's a serious flaw in your plan? Verne is a writer, not an artist."

"He sketches."

"He draws buildings and battleships and . . . God only knows what else. I can't make head or tail of half the things in his sketchbook. That hardly qualifies him as an artist." Phileas reached down to flick an invisible piece of lint from his trouser leg. "Perhaps I've met her socially. What does she look like--?"

The sound of movement on the deck outside the door was actually a relief. Rebecca stopped in mid-pace and turned, a smile already forming. As Verne pushed the door to one side and entered, she moved toward him, only absently noting the small bundle he carried in his right hand. "Jules! I didn't think you'd make it."

Phileas was also on his feet. "You cut it close this time, Verne. I was about to tell Passepartout - what in blazes is this?"

'This,' as it turned out, was a child, a little girl, who was holding Jules' left hand. She let out a startled, "Oh!" at Phileas' exclamation and ducked behind Jules as if hiding.

"Fogg!" groaned Verne through clenched teeth, in utter exasperation. "Now you've frightened her!"

As he knelt down, the child lost her hiding place. She moved into his arms, her left hand clutching the collar of his jacket, the right in front of her mouth, as if she were afraid to speak.

"It's all right, Aimee," said Verne, in a soft and careful voice. "These are my friends, they won't hurt you. This is Rebecca Fogg--"

Hearing her cue, Rebecca stepped forward and offered her hand, which the child took only after a glance of confirmation from Verne. "What a lovely name - it's Aimee?" she asked, switching to French without even thinking.

There were ash-blonde curls and brown eyes, a little stub of a nose . . . and a posture of controlled terror, as if the only thing that kept the child from bolting was Verne's hand on her back and her grip on his collar.

"And this is Phileas Fogg."

Phileas seemed at a loss for a moment, then bowed slightly toward the child. A smile crossed her face and she pulled Verne closer, whispering in his ear. Verne glanced down at the ground, trying to control a laugh.

"What?" asked Phileas, turning an accusing glance at Rebecca, as if he suspected her of sharing the private joke. "What did she say?"

"She said that you had a funny name," explained Verne.

"Well, I suppose it would be . . . in French." He shot another look at Rebecca as she chuckled. "It's certainly not that funny.

"Philly-ass?" asked Aimee.

"He is, more often than not," said Rebecca. It slipped out before she could stop herself and she brought a hand up to her lips quickly.

Even an apologetic nod from her wasn't enough to soothe Phileas, who had murder in his eyes momentarily. "Someday we'll have a discussion about French names and then we'll see what's funny."

The little girl moved closer to Verne - if that was possible - and asked, "Shall I tell them my English words?"

"No!" answered Verne quickly, his cheeks coloring. He met Rebecca's eyes, as if looking for support from her - but she had no context to work with and couldn't help him. "I don't think that's such a good idea right now. Maybe later."

It was something that Rebecca made a note to pursue, but then the child spoke again.

"Is Philly-ass a gentleman?"

"Quite so." Phileas nodded. "She may not be able to pronounce my name, but at least she knows quality," he informed Rebecca.

Her eyes, however, were on Verne, who'd gone quite pale. He glanced up at Phileas, then turned back to the child. Catching her chin in his hand, he fixed her gaze on him. "No, Aimee. He won't hurt you. Phileas is not one of your 'gentlemen.'"

"Verne!" There was a note of hurt in Phileas' voice - Rebecca was certain only she'd caught it. "I resent that."

The child's eyes widened at Phileas' outburst. Rebecca moved to Phileas and caught his arm, hissing his name between her teeth in warning.

"No, I've just been insulted. You heard him! Verne just told his sister--"

"She's not my sister," said Verne quietly. He rose to his feet, one hand resting on the child's red shawl, and repeated even more emphatically, "She's not my sister."

"Then who the devil is sh--?"

Rebecca squeezed Phileas' arm to stop him in mid-sentence; he was speaking too loudly and it was frightening the child. She looked at the little girl's face, memorizing the features, then gave Verne an equally appraising stare.

"She's not mine, either," he added, with a bit more defiance than the situation warranted.

That would have made her suspicious, had it not sounded like something he'd memorized by rote. "I didn't think she was. There's absolutely no resemblance."

Verne seemed startled by her remark, perhaps even hurt by it. He'd opened his mouth to reply, when a clatter from the salon door captured everyone's attention.

A tray carrying tea and small sandwiches was rolled into view, Passepartout following. "I was thinking I was hearing Jules' voices," he began, then stopped, seeing the child. "Is a little girl!"

"Passepartout, your powers of observation will never cease to amaze me," said Phileas. He picked up a teacup from the tray as Passepartout approached him with the silver teapot in hand--

But Passepartout walked right past him and stood before the child. Verne was smiling and held out his hand, saying, "Aimee, this is my friend, Passepartout. Passepartout, this is my friend, Aimee."

"I am being very happy to make your acquaintances." Passepartout leaned down to shake the child's hand gently.

Aimee backed up a step, but smiled up at Verne. "I like Passepartout," she announced.

Still holding his empty teacup, Phileas glared at Verne. "If she can say his name - why can't she pronounce mine correctly?"

Passepartout looked blankly at Rebecca and she winked at him, then gestured for him to serve Phileas his tea. Fixing a steady gaze on Verne, she said, "I think, Jules, there are things we need to discuss?"

"Yes, but--" he nodded his head toward Aimee, then shrugged, as if questioning what he should do.

Having finished pouring Phileas' tea, Passepartout placed the teapot back on the tray and whirled to face them. "There is a nice slice of cakes in the kitchen, if little miss would be liking some?"

"Capital idea, Passepartout," agreed Rebecca. She whisked her hand toward Passepartout to further her agreement, but Verne hesitated, glancing down at the child.

"I don't know about cake. We haven't eaten yet and - I don't think her stomach's up to it," added Verne, with enough conviction to convince Rebecca he'd had recent experience with that situation.

"Then maybes we try some toast with honey? I have been buying some strawberry jams . . . ?

Aimee was obviously interested in the offer, taking a half-step forward, but then stopping and looking back at Verne. He rested a hand in her hair for a moment, then gave her a little push. "Go ahead. You'll be safe with Passepartout. I have to talk to my friends now, but I'll be right here if you need me."

The child was hesitant, but even she couldn't ignore Passepartout's winsome smile. As she walked toward him, he held out his hand and took her own, leading her to the kitchen.

"Tell me," Passepartout asked her, "how is little miss unpronouncing Master Phileas' name?"

"Philly-ass."

Rolling his eyes, Phileas sank into a chair after the door closed behind them. "I think we need to address the pronunciation issue immediately, don't you, Verne?"

"In a minute, Phileas," warned Rebecca. Seating herself on the green sofa, closer to Phileas, she then patted the other side of the couch and looked up at Verne. "Sit. Explain."

Verne dropped onto the seat as if his legs would no longer hold him. Leaning forward, he ran his hands through his hair, as if in despair. "Thank God you came back," he said. "I don't know what to do."

His eyes were sunken slightly, as if he hadn't slept, and there was more care burdening him than she had seen before.

Rebecca gestured toward Phileas, motioning for him to get Verne a cup of tea. Phileas waved her off at first, but as she continued to gesture toward him - and shot him a threatening look Verne didn't catch - he finally rose and made his way over to the trolley.

"Perhaps you'd best begin at the beginning," she told Verne. "It's as good a place to start as any."

"I suppose." Verne looked up to take the teacup Phileas offered him and added, "Thank you, Fogg."

Rebecca caught Phileas' gaze as he returned to his seat; he'd noticed the haggard appearance of Verne, as well. The story was begun with some hesitation - Verne was more than a little embarrassed to admit to her that he'd been out drinking with his friends until all hours. She tried to keep her expression concerned, but neutral, not wanting to get off on a tangent. It was when he described the approach of the pimp and then the subsequent appearance of the police that she stopped him.

"It seems inconceivable to me that anyone would approach you for--" Rebecca found that she couldn't quite say the words. "Monstrous!"

"Verne - you said it was after two in the morning, yes?" When Verne nodded, Phileas lifted his teacup toward Rebecca. "There's your answer. The old man hadn't found a berth for the girl and was obviously desperate, considering he'd approach as unlikely a candidate as Verne."

"Thank you," repeated Verne, obviously relieved.

"And he must have been half-blind as well. Just take a look at him. I ask you, Rebecca, does it look to you as if Verne was a man of wealth and prosperity who could afford to feed such vices?"

Verne merely hung his head, while Rebecca took the occasion to narrow her eyes and give her cousin a look of rebuke. She then took Verne's empty teacup from his hands and placed it on the table. If her fingers should have lingered on his a few seconds more than necessary, it was simply an act of compassion. He raised his head enough to smile wanly at her.

"What of the child?" she asked. "You haven't been caring for her by yourself?"

"Yes, I have," Verne admitted. "I have younger sisters at home, so--"

"You have sisters?" asked Phileas in surprise. He set down his own teacup and leaned forward. "You've never told us."

Verne met Phileas' accusing stare with grim determination. "You never asked. I didn't think they mattered to you. I have a younger brother, too."

"They matter very much to us, as do you," said Rebecca quickly, rising to her feet. Both Phileas and Verne rose as well, but she motioned them to be seated again. Picking up Verne's abandoned cup, she managed to stay between them, wanting to forestall that argument for another time. "I must imagine you've had quite an experience." Continuing on to the tea service, Rebecca suddenly turned toward Verne, who was still mirroring Phileas' combative stare. "Her clothes--?"

"I got them at a ragshop this morning. It was the best I could afford." His cheeks flushed and he looked down again, as if too embarrassed to meet her gaze. "I got her fed and she had a bath . . . ."

She had turned away to pour the tea but heard something when his voice trailed off, almost a choked sob. Abandoning the filled cup on the table, she sank on her knees before him and took his hands, her skirts billowing out around her. "Jules?"

When he looked up, his eyes were fixed on the portholes of the Aurora and he cleared his throat. She could see the beginning of tears in his eyes. "In the bath, I saw the marks on her. I saw what those--those--" he turned his head to glare at Phileas, "what those gentlemen had done to her."

Rebecca had been watching from the corner of her eye - she was instantly aware when Phileas shot out of his chair and to his feet. She, too, rose, again keeping herself between Phileas and Verne, knowing that what Verne had unwittingly intimated was nothing short of a declaration of a duel to her cousin.

He surprised her. Instead of heading directly across the room to the brace of dueling pistols kept in the sideboard for just such an occasion, Phileas stalked past the Aurora's navigational console and moved to the observation window at the fore of the cabin. He'd gone quite pale and his hands had wrapped around the metal rail there with such force that she unreasonably feared he might snap it.

As Verne's life was no longer in immediate danger, she looked back to find him surreptitiously wiping the tears from his eyes as he tried to regain his self-control. The only thing to do for several moments was to pour another cup of tea for Phileas and pretend there was nothing amiss, with only the soft swish of her skirts and the sound of the tea trickling into the cup to break the silence.

"What do you plan to do with the child?" asked Rebecca, settling Phileas' cup on the tray. "Send her to your family."

"No."

The answer was so abrupt and vehement that it shocked her - she half-turned and saw Phileas look toward them.

Verne dared a glance up at her. His eyes were free of tears, but had hardened. "My father wouldn't let her through the front door."

"Surely you can't mean to keep her?" He looked away and didn't answer. Rebecca expertly navigated the end of the table and seated herself on the couch beside him, softly chiding, "Jules!"

"I know." He glanced back toward where Phileas was standing. "I can barely afford to feed myself - how could I hope to take care of Aimee?" He clasped his hands together and let his arms hang between his knees. "I brought her to the Sisters of Mercy today, but they wouldn't take her. They said she'd been . . . defiled."

There was a whisper of an angry sound from Phileas; Rebecca thought it might have been an oath, but she wasn't certain. Reaching over, she took Verne's hands in hers and squeezed them. "There's more than enough room at Shillingworth Magna. We had a wonderful time growing up there, didn't we Phileas?"

There was another grunt from him that she took as assent, but it could well have been another oath, the mood he was in.

"Thank you . . . but no."

Verne touched her hands gently to lessen the sharpness of the words, but still Rebecca was stunned that he dismissed the idea so quickly. She glanced over at Phileas, half to question and half to blame. Surely some of this was his doing?

But Verne intercepted the gaze, his eyes somewhat sorrowful, as if he hadn't intended his words to hurt her. "Not that I don't appreciate the offer," he added quickly. "But . . . I don't think it's the best thing for her."

"You could visit her whenever you liked. She'll have a lovely room - there are still several dolls and a hobbyhorse in the playroom, but I suspect she'll need new toys. And - and - we've bought messenger pigeons. Passepartout is going to train them. You could send us a message whenever you wanted to see her and we'd bring her--"

Phileas had turned and was watching her with a studious gaze. Even Verne seemed surprised at her vehemence, his eyes wide.

Feeling utterly embarrassed and completely petulant, Rebecca let go of Verne, swirled around the far end of the table, and stood with her arms crossed and her back to them both. "I don't see any problem with Shillingworth Magna. And I resent the fact that you've just insulted my childhood home."

She suspected it would be Verne who would approach her, but it was Phileas' voice at her back--"He's right, Rebecca."

Turning on Phileas with a scorching glare, she prepared a string of words that would blister the smile from his face.

But he wasn't smiling. His expression could best be described as resigned, with perhaps an undercurrent of barely controlled anger. "Or at least he thinks he is," Phileas amended, turning back to face Verne. "It's not that Shillingworth Magna isn't good enough for the child . . . it's too good. Am I right, Verne?"

His nod was barely perceptible; although his gaze was fixed on Rebecca, his words were for Phileas. "I knew you'd understand."

Still baffled, Rebecca stared at her cousin. "Explain."

"Just as Verne had perceived difficulty in admitting the child into the bosom of his family, he foresees the same reaction from our unfortunately none-too-distant relations. There will always be questions asked; forestall them now, but even more so when the child reaches her majority." He leaned closer, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper. "When her fiancee approaches us for her hand in marriage, will you be the one to explain her unfortunate past, or shall that impossible duty fall to me? There would not be dowry enough on earth to keep him from racing from the house in a blind panic."

The words, 'But if he truly loved her--?' hung on her lips for a brief moment before she abandoned them. Rebecca stood completely still as Phileas walked away, then focused her attention on Verne. "There must be another way. Perhaps there's a family at the estate which would prove more . . . suitable?"

It was the wrong word and the hurt in Verne's eyes made her wish she'd held her tongue. "At least you think she's good enough to be a servant."

"That's not what I--"

"Let it go," hissed Phileas quietly, as he stalked by her.

She couldn't win this one. Understanding that gave her insight into the anger she saw on her cousin's face. It also prompted the strongest urge she'd ever had to strike Verne, to wipe away those silly class distinctions of which he seemed to take so much notice and despise.

Instead, Rebecca chose a chair across from Verne, not trusting herself to sit too close at the moment. "Do you have another solution in mind?" she asked, consciously raising an eyebrow and letting her voice turn to ice.

It was his turn to look discomforted and she wasn't about to ease his mind with even the slightest hint of a smile. "A sister at the convent suggested that I take her to the city foundling home."

Rebecca saw Phileas come to a sudden stop, but he never turned. Keeping his back to Verne, he asked, "You've visited this place?"

"I didn't have a chance - by the time we left the convent, the foundling home had closed their gates for the night. Sister Bertrand said that if I took Aimee to the home tomorrow, they'd accept her."

Phileas turned his head slightly and Rebecca, who'd been watching him, took notice of the barest nod in her direction. They were no doubt thinking of the same thing - in London, Aimee would have found herself in a workhouse, a dreary place that offered the poor little more than a short life of pointless toil in exchange for meager rations and a generally dry, although rat-and-lice-infested, accommodation. The relief for local widows and orphans offered slightly better accommodations, but for a select few who had been born in that English parish. Neither of them were all that familiar with the French attitude toward the youngest souls abandoned by society, but they could well guess.

"She also said," began Verne quietly, "that if I had some money, it might make a difference." He looked away, unable to meet Rebecca's gaze. "I can sell some of my law books, but not before tomorrow morning. It would be a loan until the end of the week, at most."

Rebecca could hear the effort in his voice, the self-inflicted wound to his pride. Had she been as forward with, as Phileas had termed it, her charitable enterprise on Verne's behalf, she would surely have driven him away. She had no idea what to say or do, only knowing that her initial instinct - to run to Verne, wrap her arms around him, and promise him every shilling she had - would have been entirely inappropriate.

"Let us say, this is a loan between gent--" Phileas stopped himself, then turned to face Verne, a severe expression on his face . . . and looking frighteningly like his father. "A loan between friends," he amended smoothly. "No collateral, nor interest. I'll accept your marker or your handshake. Shall we say, two hundred francs, repayment to be made in a fortnight?"

Her outrage rising, Rebecca glared at Phileas - such a paltry sum! Verne surely spent twice that on his monthly rent and expenses.

But before she could protest, Verne was on his feet and moving toward Phileas, his palm outstretched. "Done!" he exclaimed, obviously relieved as Phileas shook his hand. "Thank you, Fogg. I'll pay you back."

Phileas' eyebrows rose, as if in astonishment. "Of course. We've just shaken on the deal, haven't we?"

Rebecca opened her mouth to say something when they heard a sound they'd never heard on the Aurora before - a child's laughter. All three of them turned toward the kitchen door, but it was Verne who moved first. Like a child himself, he placed both hands on the table and vaulted the corner, startling Phileas.

"He's gotten her to laugh!" Verne exclaimed in delight, barely pausing to open the door as he hit it as a run.

The tea trolley sailed toward Rebecca - she stopped it with an outstretched foot. Still fuming, she peered at Phileas through lowered lids. "Two hundred francs?"

"You disapprove?" Phileas lifted his spilled teacup from the floor with two fingers and placed it back on the trolley. "He was about to ask for half that amount."

"And you know that because?"

It was that insufferable, infuriating smile he often wore when he knew he was right about something she simply couldn't understand. "Accept it as a given."

She pursed her lips, gave him a considering glance, then nodded. "You won't press him for payment?"

"There won't be any need. I'll wager Verne will have that two hundred francs back to me in less than a fortnight."

"And you'll take it from him, even if he has to starve himself to pay you back?"

Visibly exasperated, Phileas half-turned from her as if to collect himself. Then he pointed back to where Verne had been seated and said, "Did you hear him ask?"

"Yes," she admitted, after a pause, remembering that sound in Verne's voice.

"And what would be the outcome, do you think, if I suddenly told him I didn't want the money back?"

He was furious with her obstinacy - this time rightfully so. Sighing Rebecca nodded. "You're right."

"You have no concept of--" Then Phileas stopped in mid-sentence, the bluster running out of him into a sputtered exclamation of surprise. "I'm right?"

Rebecca rose, retrieved the saucer from the floor to replace it on the tea trolley, and repeated, "You're right."

"Of course I'm right." Phileas toyed with the lapels of his coat for a moment, flustered. "It's just - I hate when you do that."

She moved closer and fixed them for him, running her palm down the length of his right lapel to smooth it. "Do what?"

"Admit that I'm right and you're wrong, when I'm absolutely certain that I'm completely in the right." Phileas was sulking now. "It takes the wind out of one's sails, changing tack like that."

"Next time I'll try to disagree with you longer," Rebecca offered, then wrapped her arm around his. "Shall we go check on the children?"

He smiled easily in reply, opened his mouth as if to say something . . . and then turned his attention to the flower in his lapel. "You were particularly eloquent when explaining why the child should be kept at Shillingworth Magna." He finally looked at her, with no outwardly discernible agenda.

Rebecca met his eyes, despite her uncertainty at being able to hide her unease from him. Phileas could be uncannily perceptive at times, usually when it would prove to be the most embarrassing for her. "I thought it might be the best solution for the child. That's all."

"That's all," he echoed faintly. "I often wonder if the lack of children in the manor isn't a deficit - I mean, the staff must miss it, surely?"

"Broken windows, splintered furniture, scuff marks on the floor, torn drapes, sliced portraits--"

"That was only once," countered Phileas sternly. "And it was entirely your fault, daring me to take a stab at the General while sliding down the banister--"

"You were holding the sword at the time--"

"You haven't answered the question."

She held her breath for a long moment, her eyes pleading with him not to press the issue, not now. "I'm not entirely certain what the question was."

It was his turn to hesitate. For a long moment Phileas stared at her; she swore she saw the slightest movement of his lips . . . and then he shook his head. "I can't remember. And the General wasn't my fault."

Their arms intertwined, he led her into the kitchen just as Rebecca answered quickly, "And I suppose the chair in the front parlor was also my responsibility--"

For some reason, the kitchen was covered in a veil of white, which Rebecca recognized immediately as flour. Verne, Passepartout, and Aimee were huddled in a corner, their heads together, as if concocting some conspiracy.

Verne caught sight of them first and struggled to his feet, grinning like a fool - he, too, was covered with flour, although Passepartout seemed to have gotten the worst of it. The valet straightened when faced with the presence of Phileas' raised eyebrow and rushed from the room, muttering something about retrieving the tea trolley. Aimee was standing beside Verne, something colorful in her hand.

Before Rebecca quite realized what was happening, Aimee was running toward her. "Look! Look! Jules made me a doll!"

"Is this another skill that we can add to the list of your unending talents?" asked Phileas.

Verne smiled and shrugged almost shyly. "I used to make them for my sisters. Passepartout had some rags. We tried filling it with flour, but--"

"I can see that it wasn't entirely a success," noted Phileas, turning around to survey the wholesale devastation. "I should hope this won't delay dinner."

Rebecca rolled her eyes at him, then knelt down beside Amy on the flour-covered floor. "Let me see, darling," she asked, as Aimee held the doll out for her inspection. It was little more than a bundle of rags tied together, but Verne had used an ink pen to sketch out eyes, eyebrows, eyelashes, and a button nose on the face. "I think I may have a ribbon upstairs we could tie in her hair," said Rebecca, studying the doll seriously. "Would you like a red one or a blue one?"

"A red one," decided Aimee.

Phileas stepped closer to view the doll. "Capitol choice," he commented.

Rebecca felt Aimee shrink back against her. She looked up to see Phileas step away quickly, as if he'd found something of immense importance to interest him on the other side of the small room.

"A red one it shall be." Rebecca handed the doll back to the child, then looked up at Verne, who was beaming proudly down on his foundling. "I have some rouge you might use to make a mouth."

"Oh no," said Aimee quickly. "She mustn't have a mouth."

"Why not?" asked Verne, studying the doll for some defect. "I think I could fit a mouth right there." He touched the doll lightly, but Aimee pulled it close to her chest and stared up at him.

"She can't have a mouth, because she'd cry and cry and cry. And she's not allowed to cry, because then the gentlemen get mad. So she can't have a mouth, ever." Aimee held the doll out from her and looked at it critically. "But I'll love her anyway."

Tears rose in Rebecca's eyes. She looked to Verne for support, but he'd turned away. Instead, she did follow her first instincts this time and hugged the child to her tightly.

From behind her, she heard Phileas say, "We're delaying our departure - Chatsworth be damned. Verne, perhaps Rebecca should accompany you to that foundling home tomorrow. These sorts of things proceed better with a woman's touch, don't you agree?"

Rebecca knew then that Aimee would begin her life in the Paris foundling home with considerably more than two hundred francs to her credit.

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End of Chapter Six

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