Chapter 7 - In which Jules considers a lock for the door
His first surprise, when he awoke and found himself staring up at the ceiling of the Aurora, was that Jules felt himself relax in utter contentment. What was it about this place that always made his body feel as if he were at home?
The second surprise occurred as he attempted to turn and found the blankets on his right side pinned beneath a weight. By lifting himself slightly, he was able to confirm that Aimee was sleeping soundly atop the edge of his blanket, the ragdoll clutched to her chest. She was wearing a trimmed down red flannel shirt that Passepartout had produced from heavens only knew where. In hugging Aimee good-night, before she'd disappeared into Rebecca's chamber, he'd remembered thinking that it was much better than the shirt he'd provided - warm, soft, and ending just above her ankles, a miracle of instant tailoring accomplished by Passepartout.
Although it was warm enough in the Aurora, he felt guilty that Aimee had slept without benefit of any covering the night before. Carefully turning his blanket over her, he leaned to press a kiss lightly on her left cheek. As a matter of course, he moved the hair away from her ear and discovered the bruises there to be less inflamed and more pink than purple. They might even be gone in a day or so.
But if he left her at the foundling home this morning, he wouldn't see her in a day or so.
The third, and what he hoped to be the final, surprise of the morning was the sound of a throat being cleared - Rebecca was seated on a chair by the door, wrapped in a dressing robe, her lap covered with a blanket.
Modesty immediately won out over compassion as Jules flipped the blanket back over himself, pulled it up to his neck, and squeaked "Rebecca?"
She placed two fingers to her lips and gestured toward Aimee. "She left my bed in the middle of the night. I'd have been more concerned if we'd been aloft, but I thought she shouldn't be left unattended. How she found you so quickly, I'll never know." And then she hesitated, her face going pale for a moment. "Jules, I'm sorry. That sounded--"
"It's all right."
Relieved, Rebecca nodded her thanks. "I apologize for dozing off. I thought I'd wait until she fell asleep, then carry her back upstairs, but," she shrugged lightly, "yesterday was a very long day."
Her robe parted slightly as she shrugged. Jules sat up, still holding the blanket to his neck, and found himself automatically staring at the well-placed folds of her nightgown. He looked away quickly. "Yesterday was a very long day for Aimee, as well. I'd like to let her sleep."
"Would you like me to carry her upstairs for you?"
Rebecca had begun walking toward the bed, the sash of her robe still swinging freely - he saw that much from the corner of his eye. Jules cleared his throat. "No - um - I didn't come prepared to stay the night and I didn't feel like sleeping in my clothes again, so I'm - um - it would be helpful if you'd just wait outside for a moment?"
Her eyes widening in realization, Rebecca stopped in mid-step. "Oh. I apologize. I had no idea--"
He'd expected her leave, but she hesitated, turning slightly as if knowing that being the center of her attention was making him uncomfortable. "I wanted to mention - since we may not have a moment later . . . be careful what you tell Phileas."
"What I tell Phileas?" Jules stared at her - where she was standing in the morning sunlight, the drape of the robe was even more revealing. "About you falling asleep in my room, and me being--?"
She chuckled beneath her breath and placed a palm over her eyes. "That wasn't what I meant," she admitted, "but I think we'd best keep that to ourselves as well." Dropping her hand from her eyes, she took a breath. "No. When I undressed Aimee last night, what I saw--"
It was as if she needed to look at him, to meet his eyes and let him know that she understood. He saw her fighting the urge, but also noticed that her hand had clenched into a fist.
Jules swallowed and glanced down at Aimee in the bed beside him. He wanted to very much to go to Rebecca, to wrap his arms around her . . . but understood that was impossible in his current state of undress.
"Rebecca--"
"I think it best," she continued, after a moment, "that we don't mention the details to Phileas. He won't ask. I'm not telling you to lie. Just don't . . . don't tell him."
"You're afraid of what he might do?"
She did turn then and he saw the soft lines of her face go taut with concern. "Yes. And it's far too late for that to help anyone now, especially Aimee. So if you would be so kind--?"
"You have my word," promised Jules.
"Thank you." She looked down at Aimee and a sad smile touched her lips. "Before we go to the foundling home this morning, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to buy her a proper bonnet. And, perhaps, a slightly larger pair of shoes?" Meeting his eyes briefly, Rebecca's smile became apologetic. "Not that I think there's anything wrong with what you bought her, it's just that there aren't any little girls in the family at the moment. Nor does it seem as if there will be in the near--" She stopped and cleared her throat, looking away. "It would please me to do it for her. But I won't, if you'd prefer."
That she was asking his permission to purchase presents for Aimee touched him. "If you'd like; it's for Aimee, after all. But Phileas said something last night about a telegraph and Chatsworth?"
Rebecca smiled grimly. "I believe he also said, 'Bugger Chatsworth,' or words to that effect. Whether we had left last night or leave tonight will make no difference to the secret service. By tomorrow night, certainly. But then--"
She glanced at Aimee again and Jules found that he could easily read her expression - by then, it really wouldn't matter, because the child would have been placed beyond their reach, there'd be no real reason to stay.
Feeling the need to think about something other than handing Aimee over to the Parisian authorities like discarded baggage, Jules offered, "She likes scented soap."
"Does she?" Rebecca turned a beaming smile on him. "Would you happen to know what scent?"
"I - I don't know. It smelled like flowers. The shop girl chose it."
"Which shop?"
Again, he drew a blank. "A perfumery?"
Her smile became more patient. "Jules, there must be over a hundred perfumeries in Paris. Which one?"
Shrugging, he lost his grip on the blanket, which slipped to his waist. Jules scrambled for a hold on it and tugged it higher. To his horror, he saw Aimee begin to roll off the edge of the bed as the blanket was pulled out from beneath her, and grabbed for a handful of the red flannel nightshirt.
He missed.
Rebecca, however, didn't. Her dressing robe had slipped partially from her shoulders and she'd used it to slide across the floor, beside the bed. Her movement was so quick as to be a blur and Jules looked over the edge of the bed to see a disheveled Rebecca lying on the floor, Aimee ungracefully draped over her.
The little girl had let out a startled, "Oh!" on impact. As she tried to rise, her legs went out from under her and she sat down on the floor immediately.
Rebecca took the distressed child in her arms. "It's all right, darling. You've just fallen out of bed."
"Bed?" she asked sleepily, rubbing an eye with her fist. Then she smiled at her rescuer. "Rebecca?"
"Yes, darling." Rebecca touched her lips to Aimee's hair and hugged her. "Jules is very, very sorry that he pushed you out of bed, aren't you, Jules?"
"I didn't push her," he protested, but then was forced to muster the protection of the blanket in full force as Aimee leaped out of Rebecca's arms, made the edge of the bed in once bounce, and pounced on him.
"Jules!"
One of her knees connected with what was certainly a vital organ. Even as he fell back against the bed in stunned shock, Aimee moved with him, her arms around his neck. She kissed his lips lightly, her brown eyes staring down into his. "Good morning, Jules."
He groaned a response. As if on cue, Rebecca caught Aimee around the waist. Whirling her off the bed to the child's delight, she then lowered the little girl to the floor. "Let's see if we can get dressed faster than Jules," she suggested to the child.
"I'll catch up . . . with you . . . at breakfast," moaned Jules.
"You see," he heard Rebecca say in a loud whisper, "he knows we'll beat him!"
Lying in bed and trying to fight the urge to curl up into a tight ball, Jules closed his eyes. He heard them at the door, but before it closed he heard another voice.
"Rebecca?"
"Good morning, Phileas."
"And to you. You're looking particularly demure this morning."
"Say 'good morning' to Phileas," prompted Rebecca's voice.
"Good morning, Philly-ass." And then, "Philly-ass has won - he's already dressed!"
The last comment faded into the distance. Jules opened his eyes as a light tap sounded at his door, and then Fogg entered, calling, "Verne, are you decent?"
The man was fully dressed, right down to the carnation in his lapel. All that was missing was his cane and his hat, which were both, no doubt, awaiting him downstairs.
Jules managed to hoist himself up to a seated position, the blanket still draped strategically around his lower body. "Fogg, just a suggestion, but do you think you should install a lock on that door?"
"A lock?" Turning, Fogg closed the door and stood appraising it, a finger to his lip. "Not a bad idea. In case one of Passepartout's experiments go awry?"
"Something like that."
"I see your point." Then Fogg promptly pulled out the chair upon which Rebecca had been seated earlier and settled into it, his expression grim. "Forgive the intrusion, but I have something I need to discuss with you."
"If it's about the way Aimee says your name, there's nothing I can--"
Fogg waved his hand, dismissing that matter. "That's regrettable, but entirely understandable. I'd rather have the child comfortable than . . . not." He fixed Jules with a stern look. "You must understand the nature of the place to which you're taking the child, before you pass through the gates."
"It's a foundling home . . . ," Jules offered weakly.
"It's an institution. Anything of worth you send in with the child won't remain hers for long - they'll exchange good clothing for a standard cotton smock, new shoes for felt slippers, hair ribbons for common string. If it can be sold, it will be removed from her."
A chill swept through him at the bluntness of the words and Jules sat up quickly in bed. "But the money?"
"The money will make a difference at the start, but when they realize the child has no blood relations, it will disappear into private purses. She'll never find benefit in more than a penny of it."
Jules swallowed, resentment toward Fogg's merciless words and his detached demeanor almost choking him. "Why didn't you tell me this last night?"
"Because you wouldn't have listened to anything I had to offer last night. You were desperate and you'd thought you'd found a solution." Fogg nodded. "Perhaps you had, but it's the wrong solution."
"What other choice do I have? I can't keep her, my family doesn't want her, the nuns won't take her, she can't stay with you--"
"But if a family could be found . . . ?"
There was enough possibility in that question to stop Jules' heart from beating for an instant. "People who'd love her?"
"Yes."
"Care for her?"
"Yes."
"Educate her?"
"Protect her? Adore her? Treat her as one of their own?" offered Fogg. "Yes, yes, and yes. There are people who would gladly take her, it's simply a matter of finding them here, in her own country. But that will require time. We don't have time." He hesitated and looked to one side of the room, as if ill at ease. "There's a mission Rebecca needs to accomplish. She's more attentive to her safety when she's not distracted. This is a distraction."
Jules brought his legs up to his chest, winced at the lingering pain from Aimee's accidental assault, and patted the blanket on either side of his legs to preserve his modesty. His actions were merely a cover to his thoughts. The crew of the Aurora had lives of their own; by involving them in his dilemma regarding Aimee, he'd interrupted their activities. If Rebecca went on a mission and something happened to her because she was, as Fogg had said, 'distracted' . . . .
"Thank you for telling me," he answered. Looking up, he found that Fogg's gaze was centered squarely on him again. "All of it."
"Yes, well, we needn't share that portion of the conversation with Rebecca - she'd have both our heads." Fogg produced a faint smile. "I'm quite partial to mine, at the moment."
Jules mirrored the smile, having been bystander to several of the Fogg versus Fogg confrontations and was daunted by the prospects of a successful stand of his own against Rebecca's formidable verbal talents. But then he sighed and covered his face with his hands. "That puts me back where I started. I can't keep her."
"You're correct - the longer the child remains, the harder it will be to let go when the time comes." When Jules looked up at him, stunned at the absolute finality of the words, Fogg nodded. "You will have to walk away from her."
"I thought if she were nearby, I could visit her--"
"And bring back the memories of her past every time she saw you? Surely you wouldn't be so cruel?" Then, as Jules took a breath, ready to protest in the loudest terms possible, Fogg held up a hand, forestalling the tirade. "Think, man! You're her guardian of the moment, a bridge from her past into her future. If that bridge remains intact, there's always a possibility of being drawn backward. But remove the bridge . . . and she has a better chance of being drawn only toward her future."
The breath was released slowly, the protest dying when faced with Fogg's explanation. It resonated deep within him - he knew he'd have to walk away at some point, but there'd always been the hope that perhaps, maybe, he could still see her, have some contact with her . . . .
Some visionary!
"You have a recommendation?" asked Jules.
"Yes, but as her guardian, it's up to you to decide. Understand that nothing I suggest is an attempt to preempt your rights or your authority in this regard." Fogg rose to his feet and began to pace. "I will abide by your wishes completely."
"Thank you." The realization that Fogg was nervous almost shocked him. And gave him a moment's pause - what could the man be on the verge of suggesting?
"We should rent rooms for the child in Paris, and hire a nursemaid," explained Fogg quickly. "Comfortable, not exclusive. She would receive utmost care, including the services of a physician and a surgeon if necessary. She would be permitted to enjoy the life owed her. Perhaps a pet?" Fogg shook his head and ran a palm across his eyes. "I don't pretend to understand it, but they seem to like kittens."
"But . . . she'd be alone."
He hadn't thought to put so much emphasis on the word - Fogg turned toward him, a quizzical look on his face, but he returned to pacing almost immediately. "There would be the nursemaid. It would only be a temporary solution, I assure you. A suitable family will be found; you'd be expected to interview and approve them, of course."
"And if I didn't like them?"
"Then we will find another." Fogg stopped and Jules saw wire-taut tension in the stillness; the man was angry. "And another, and another until your criteria have been met, the child has been placed in a suitable environment, and we are finished with this."
Mustering every ounce of dignity he had - which was difficult due to the fact that he was wearing little more than the blanket he was tying around his waist and was limping slightly from the injury he'd received from Aimee - Jules slid out of bed and marched up to Phileas. "That's all she is to you, isn't it? A problem to be solved? And that's how you solve problems - toss money at them? Get someone else to do the work, servants or Passepartout, or Rebecca." He pointed toward the door. "You've never even said her name, have you? I don't think you have. You don't even know it!"
Fogg's eyes were fixed on him, dark and unmoving, almost blank, his arms tucked behind his back. As his shout died away in the absolute silence, Jules suddenly realized his danger. This is the man who'd slammed him into a wall, suspecting him of being an assassin with plans to murder his beloved English Queen. This is the man who had methodically thrashed him within an inch of his life for just that reason.
This was also the man who had promised to lend him two hundred francs for two weeks, with no interest or security, who'd offered him the best option he'd yet discovered for finding his foundling a safe and happy home, who'd suffered the continued disruption of his household and the indignity of an unfortunate mispronunciation of his name . . . .
'The longer the child remains, the harder it will be to let go when the time comes--'
How could he have missed that?
"Fogg, I--"
Fogg leaned his face close enough for Jules to see his own contrite image reflected in the man's eyes.
"Her name," he hissed, "is 'Aimee.'"
"I didn't mean--"
But Fogg had already gone, walking from the room without a backward glance.
"Damn!" Jules raced to the door, but it was closed deliberately and firmly in his face. He placed his hand on the doorknob, ready to throw it open.
He was wearing a blanket.
"Damn! Damn! Damn! My clothes?"
His shoes he found on the floor beneath a counter. Jules tossed those aside dismissively, but there was absolutely no sign of--
There was a tentative knock at the door.
"What?" he barked, still whirling around, trying to find some sign of his clothing.
The door opened a crack and Passepartout leaned inside, the movement tentative. "Jules, I am having brought your clothes."
"Thank God!" As Passepartout stepped inside, Jules all but ripped the clothing from his grasp, throwing it to the bed. He hopped into his trousers immediately, then let the blanket fall from around his waist.
"I am hoping you would not be minding; they were needing to be cleaned."
"Thank you, Passepartout." Wearing trousers and being able to shrug into his shirt, Jules felt more himself. He ran a hand through his hair and smiled wanly at the valet. "I'm sorry - I didn't mean to snap at you." He lifted his suspenders into place, as Passepartout retrieved the blanket from the floor and folded it. "I have to speak to Fogg; do you know where he is?"
"Master Fogg has been leaving already for the day. He say to have breakfasts without him."
"Damn." This time the expletive was gentler. After picking his shoes up from the floor, Jules seated himself on the edge of the bed and hurriedly put on his stockings and shoes. "I have to speak with him."
"I am thinking you have just been speaking with him." When Jules looked up anxiously, Passepartout added, "Very loudly."
Jules closed his eyes and shook his head. "When am I ever going to learn to think before I open my mouth?"
He felt Passepartout's hand on his shoulder. "I am being sure that master has asked that question himself a hundreds of time." When he opened his eyes, he saw Passepartout grinning down at him. "And if you do not mind my telling this to you, there are ladies at the tables awaiting you for breakfasts?"
"Thank you, yes." Rising, Jules picked up his waistcoat and slipped into it, only half-aware that Passepartout was passing a brush expertly through the tangle of his hair as he completed his own waistcoat fastenings. "I suppose Rebecca heard."
"And the little miss. She's being very worried about you. I was thinking she would be hitting master Fogg on his way out, but Miss Rebecca is keeping a hand on the back of her dresses."
"Great." Unthinking, he automatically slipped his arms into the sleeves of the coat offered to him by Passepartout. "Thank you."
Passepartout immediately moved to the bed and began to fix the sheets and pillows. Jules turned to leave, but paused. "How do you--how do you manage to deal with Fogg?" he asked, curiously.
There was the briefest hesitation in Passepartout's movements, but he continued to straighten the bedclothes with precise efficiency. "Master Fogg, he say what he is thinking, but not what he feel."
Jules grinned. "Which means you have to be a mind-reader to understand him."
"Not a reader of the minds." Passepartout patted his chest. "A reader of the hearts. And . . . am knowing to think before I am saying somethings."
Jules chuckled and shook his head in wonderment. "He has no idea how lucky he is to have you working for him, does he?"
"He know." Mirroring his grin, Passepartout sent his hand down the perfectly made bed with a flourish. "Besides, everybody else he would be hiring was quitting."
"I'd imagine he'd be impossible to work for."
"Not so impossible," amended Passepartout. "He is being only . . . Master Phileas Fogg." Then Passepartout pointed to the door and said gently, "Breakfasts?"
"Yes," agreed Jules. "I'm going. Thank you again, Passepartout, for . . . everything." Tugging down the edges of his coat and running his hand through his hair one last time, Jules headed out the door at a run. His steps slowed, however, as he approached the staircase. Exactly how he was going to explain to Rebecca how badly he'd just insulted Fogg?
It was going to be an interesting breakfast.
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End of Chapter Seven
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