Chapter 8 - In which water glasses are endangered
They'd heard Verne shouting with no sense to the words, simply noise. Wide-eyed, Aimee had turned to Rebecca, then made a dash for the stairs. She'd been hard-pressed to intercept the child, managing to get her away from the steps just as Phileas had appeared. He'd paused at the bottom of the stairway, glanced down at Aimee, and smiled.
"Where's Jules?" the child had demanded.
A sudden bitterness accented his smile and there was something in his eyes . . . but when he actually met Rebecca's gaze, it had already gone.
"He's upstairs," Phileas said, addressing his answer not to Aimee, but to her. "I'll be gone for the day."
He moved as if to step around the little girl. Rebecca took that moment to approach him and caught his sleeve. "And the foundling home?"
Phileas turned his head away and licked his lips, as if there were a hundred things he wished to say . . . and yet could find no words for any of them. "Perhaps you'd best speak with Verne about that," he said sharply. "Because at the moment, I don't think I truly give a damn."
She might have believed him, if he hadn't glanced back at the child.
For her own part, Aimee was watching him with a mixture of suspicion and dread. "Did you hurt Jules?" she demanded, voice trembling.
When he knelt down on one knee before her, Aimee backed up a step, right into Rebecca. His hand, half-raised to touch her cheek, dropped instantly to his side. "What would you think if I told you that I would never, intentionally hurt Ver--Jules?" he asked softly.
"I don't believe you."
That bitter smile returned. "Then, you're a very perceptive little girl."
Phileas rose to his feet, avoided meeting Rebecca's eyes, then turned away. Had Rebecca not grabbed the seat of her dress, Aimee would have launched herself at his back, growling angrily. Without another word, Phileas picked up his hat, retrieved his cane and gloves, and left.
"But he hurt Jules!" protested Aimee, fighting the hold on her dress.
"No, darling." Planting a hand on either one of Aimee's shoulders to hold her in place, Rebecca stared after her cousin. "I suspect Phileas is the injured party, this time."
"Miss Rebecca?"
She nearly started, not having heard the valet enter through the kitchen. "Yes, Passepartout?" Rebecca turned Aimee toward the table and said, "Sit down, Aimee; Jules will be down in a minute."
"That will being difficult without this clothes?"
"Ah." She nodded, seeing Verne's apparel draped over Passepartout's arm. "Yes, you might want to deliver those to him immediately."
Passepartout nodded, giving the exterior door a quick glance before heading up the staircase.
For a moment, Rebecca wondered how much of the exchange Passepartout had heard. Had it been one of the servants at Shillingworth Magna, she would have been concerned, but Passepartout had risked his life with them. He was family. He also seemed able to keep Phileas in hand, which was more than she could say for herself lately. Social etiquette be damned - better that he know everything about every one of them. It might just save their lives some day.
"Rebecca?" Aimee was sucking on a spoon from the table setting - at least it was keeping her busy. "Is Phileas a gentleman?"
She paused before answering, remembering something of Verne's use of the word the day before . . . and the meaning it held for Aimee. "Jules told you that Phileas wasn't one of your gentleman, didn't he?"
"But he hurts people."
The spoon slipped away from the child and struck a crystal water goblet, the sudden ringing sound doing little to soothe Rebecca's jangled nerves. Reaching over, she moved anything breakable a distance from Aimee and forced a reassuring smile. "He doesn't mean to hurt people. Phileas has a tendency to tell the truth. That sometimes hurts people, although he doesn't mean it that way. It's--" She stopped, realizing the child had moved onto playing with the fork and wasn't really listening. "You'll understand when you're older."
"When I'm older, I'm going to live in the glass house Jules drew and he's going to live with me and I'm going to be happy."
Rebecca paused in the midst of clearing away Phileas' unused place settling, and looked at the child curiously. "Aren't you happy now?"
"Jules doesn't make me go upstairs with the gentlemen. He makes me happy." Aimee held up the fork, studying her reflection in it. "Rebecca, how can I make Jules like me?"
"Aimee, he does like you. He's been taking care of you, hasn't he?"
"But he doesn't want to take a bath with me or sleep with me or anything." She dropped the fork to the table, her expression serious. "I want him to be happy."
Spotting the ragdoll on the floor, Rebecca reached down to pick it up, but took her time in doing so. She sniffed, not wanting the child to see her struggling to control her composure. When she brought the doll up to the height of table, she was wearing a false smile. "I think if you're a good girl and do what Jules tells you to do, he'll be very happy. And see, you've dropped your doll."
"Thank you." Aimee took the doll from Rebecca, then wrapped her arms around it. "She's a pretty doll."
"She's a very pretty doll," agreed Rebecca, thankful for the safer topic of conversation. Not certain how much longer that would last, she rose to her feet. "Perhaps I'd better see what's keeping Jules--"
"I'm coming," Verne announced, descending the stairs at a run.
"Jules!" Aimee leapt from her chair, the doll swinging wildly from one hand and nearly taking out a water glass - which Rebecca manage to catch before it could strike the ground.
Prepared for her this time, Verne caught her as she leapt into his arms, although Rebecca noticed that he took care to protect himself from her flailing limbs.
Verne hugged Aimee and carried her over to the table. When he met Rebecca's eyes, he cleared his throat. "I gather you heard - Fogg and I?"
"Only the sound and fury," she explained. She watched as he set Aimee on her chair and then pushed the chair in toward the table, his manner very reminiscent of Phileas. He was picking something up, then. A gentleman in training?
Passepartout hurried down the stairs. "I will be bringing breaksfast directly," he announced, not even bothering to pause on his way to the kitchen.
"Thank you," called Rebecca. Then she set her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, staring directly across at Verne.
"What?" he asked nervously, reaching for Aimee's napkin and tucking it into the neckline of her smock.
"What did you say to him?"
One of the wonderful things about Verne was his inability to hide his thoughts. His cheeks colored slightly and he wouldn't look at her. "I think I insulted him."
"Oh, Jules."
"It was my fault. Fogg can be so . . . brusque and I just flew off the handle." He ducked his head slightly, then looked up at her through lowered eyelids, even as Passepartout arrived with a pitcher in one hand and a serving dish balanced on the other. "I'm sorry."
"You should apologize to Phileas, not me."
Verne leaned back in his chair as Passepartout placed a wedge of ham and a scoop of eggs on his plate. "I would, if I could find him."
"Philly-ass is bad," declared Aimee, peering at Verne's breakfast dish with interest. "He's a gentleman!"
"Aimee, no! You mustn't say that." He caught the child's upper arm, shaking her slightly. "That's not true. Fogg has been very good to us. He's trying to help us. He's trying to help you . . . if I'd only let him."
Although she made no sound, the child went still, staring at Jules with wide eyes. He released his hold on her and picked up his fork, poking listlessly at his eggs without seeming to notice the impact his words had on her.
Rebecca, however, held her breath. At the very least, she expected a burst of tears or perhaps a tantrum. Instead there was . . . nothing. It was as if the child had been switched off, like a mechanical toy.
"Little miss would like eggs?" asked Passepartout, helpfully.
It was as if Aimee didn't hear him, or couldn't hear him. She sat still, staring at Verne.
Passepartout met Rebecca's eyes, his expression worried.
"It's all right, Passepartout," said Rebecca softly. "I'll have some eggs, and a little ham, thank you."
"Yes, Miss Rebecca." He moved behind her, spooning out the eggs, and then lifted the ham with tongs from the segregated section of the tray to her plate. "I will be getting the coffee."
"That will be fine, Passepartout." Rebecca cleared her throat. "Jules?"
"Hmn?" He was still chasing the eggs around the plate with his fork, obviously lost in thought.
"Look at Aimee."
He looked up - from his expression, he was still angry with himself - his intent probably being no more than a casual glance. But when he saw the child's face, he stopped, lowering the fork to the table automatically.
"What's wrong with her, Jules?"
"She doesn't cry." Their voices remained quiet, as if in mutual agreement not to startle the child. Verne lifted his hand, his fingers brushing her cheek. "It's all right, Aimee. You're a good girl."
There was a flicker of life in the child's eyes when Verne touched her face, an instant when Rebecca thought she saw the child flinch, as if afraid of being struck but even more afraid of being seen attempting to avoid the blow. The doll-like stillness was distressingly unnatural. "What did they do to her?" Rebecca asked, in a horrified whisper.
"I'm sorry," said the child, in a small voice, so low that Rebecca could barely hear the words. "I'll be nice to Philly-ass. I promise. I'll be very nice to him. I'll make him happy, if you want."
Tears had been gathering in Rebecca's eyes. She lifted her napkin to her lips and held it there, afraid that she might sob aloud. This wasn't the same child who had chatted breezily about the dogs she'd played with in the park, stroked the length of Rebecca's silk robe with joyful awe at the softness, or who'd bounced playfully, if unfortunately, on Verne this morning. The scars and marks on the little girl's body, the child's frustration at being unable to do for Verne what she had been told to do to make other men happy, and now this . . . .
"Please, excuse me," she murmured, napkin still pressed to her lips. Passepartout had entered with the coffee and was inadvertently blocking her access to the stairway, so Rebecca amended her plan and headed for the cabin door. Once outside, she leaned her body against the outer wall of the gondola and then turned her face to the sunshine. The air came out of her lungs in a great gasp and she struggled for a moment to regulate her breathing, knowing that if she started crying now she wouldn't be able to stop for some time.
Verne joined her some minutes later. She half-turned away, unable to face him until she'd wiped her eyes, but he placed her wrap around her shoulders from behind. His hand rested on her shoulder and she placed her own over it. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." Verne waited a few seconds before adding, "She's all right now. Passepartout's introduced her to an orange." Then he cleared his throat. "I think they've just added a new stain to the carpet."
"Oh, damn the carpet," sighed Rebecca. She flung her back against the solid wood of the gondola again and looked out across the green pasture in which the Aurora was tethered. "The reality of it surprised me, I suppose. It's all so utterly normal for her. Do you know--" she turned her face to look at him, "how badly she wants to please you? The things she'd be willing to do for you, because you've given her a warm bed, and meals, and attention? And then to offer - for Phileas - of all the--!"
Verne looked startled, the color draining from his face at the import of her words. "Passepartout said he thought she was going to hit Fogg."
"Because she'd heard the argument and suspected that he'd hurt you." Rebecca closed her eyes and shook her head momentarily to clear it. "From her point of view, what else was she to think? She heard you shouting. She'd guessed that you were alone with Phileas. I'd suspect it's his clothing that separates him from the rest of us in her mind - he dresses like her previous 'gentlemen.'" Opening her eyes, she shot a sly smile at Verne. "She was trying to protect you from Phileas. She even called him a liar when he told her that he'd never hurt you. I think it nearly broke his heart."
"Oh," said Verne, in a small, lost voice that was more reminiscent of Aimee's than she'd care to contemplate. He glanced back over his shoulder, lost for a moment in his thoughts. Then he met her eyes again. "This morning you mentioned your mission?"
"Oh. Yes. That."
"You said that it might wait until tomorrow evening?"
She watched his expression, which was guarded. "Why do you ask?"
"Fogg told me what the foundling home would be like - they wouldn't help her there, it wouldn't be a real life. He offered to find rooms for her and a nursemaid until we could find a family willing to take her in." Verne looked away. "And then I insulted him."
"Oh, Jules." Rebecca sighed again. "Knowing Phileas, he's wandering about knocking heads off begonias with his cane, or some other asinine thing - he's a bane to gardeners everywhere when he's in a mood. Then he'll rent the rooms, hire a nursemaid, and return here expecting we've all had plenty of time to come to our senses and agree with him completely."
"Which would prevent you from leaving for your mission until tomorrow evening, at the earliest."
Rebecca nodded, then met his gaze. "It can wait until then. I'll need your help with it, if you're free."
"Of course."
There it was, in a tone that implied that he neither wanted nor needed further details. "You have no idea what I'm going to ask you to do."
"It doesn't matter. If you think I can help you, then I'll do it."
Awesome, that's what it was, his complete and utter trust in her. Not unlike the complete and utter trust Aimee seemed to give him.
She shook her head, looking away. "Why did you ask about the mission waiting until tomorrow evening?"
"I'm not taking Aimee to the foundling home, after what Fogg told me. She'd be much better off with what he suggested. And if I have to get down on my knees to apologize to him--"
"I hardly think that will be necessary," said Rebecca dryly, not mentioning that she would personally coldcock Phileas if he misbehaved in such a fashion.
"The soonest he'll be able to make suitable arrangements will be this evening, or tomorrow." Verne grinned at her. "We can spend the day with Aimee."
Rebecca hesitated. "Is she well enough? After this morning--"
"That was my fault," admitted Verne. "I frightened her. I was too busy thinking about what an idiot I'd been not to have seen . . . ."
"What?" she asked.
"That - that I'd insulted Fogg." Before she could press him, he added, "You wanted to buy her a bonnet?"
"Yes. And shoes. She mentioned that park, where you took her to play with the dogs? I'd like to go there. To the perfumery. Lunch, of course." She met his eyes. "Unless you think that's too full of a day for her?"
"We can pace ourselves."
Rebecca smiled at his swell of pride, at her deference to his role as the child's guardian. "And Passepartout should accompany us, I think. They get along well together, she'd enjoy his company. Such a sad little orphan." A sudden sense of dolor stole over her as she glanced through a window at the interior of the cabin, even though she knew she was too far forward to see Passepartout and Aimee.
There but for the grace of God . . . .
She turned to find Verne's hand outstretched, as if he were going to touch her shoulder or her arm. Caught in mid-motion the hand dropped, but he still dared a look in her eyes. "What?"
"Oh." Perceptive little Frenchman, wasn't he? "I was just thinking how lucky we can be, sometimes." And then she cleared her throat and moved past him. He was quick to reach for the door and hold it open for her, and this time did touch her arm, to stop her.
"Lucky?"
Peals of laughter reached them, a combination of Passepartout's chuckles and Aimee's giggling. Rebecca smiled at the sound, although it also brought the sting of tears to her eyes. "Aimee's luck at having found you. I can think of few people in the world who wouldn't have turned away in disgust and left her in the middle of Paris to fend for herself."
His cheeks flushed with pleasure at her compliment; Verne ducked his head shyly in response. "But it's not just me. I tried to do it alone - I couldn't. It's you and Passepartout and Fogg - without you, I don't know what I would have done."
"You would have done well," she told him, reaching out to give his shoulder a supportive squeeze. "This morning, you knew precisely what to do."
"But I didn't." Verne pushed a wave of hair back from his eyes as if in frustration. "I'm guessing. I never thought I'd ever hear her laugh, until last night." Another wave of merriment sounded from the cabin and he looked away, as if entranced. The joy of it faded from his face slowly and he swallowed. "The way she turns herself off when she stiffens up, as if she expects me to strike her . . . it frightens me. She never cries. And - I think - I think that if she did start to cry, she might never stop."
He didn't understand. Of course, how could he? Verne had been raised in what she assumed to be a loving family, with two parents and siblings. He'd never known the sudden, devastating loss of the extension of self, as if an arm or a leg had been taken away. No, worse than that, because losing a limb or appendage would have created have been some physical reminder of what once was, instead of the by-now faded memories, which seemed to grow a little more distant every year.
"Rebecca?"
"I wouldn't worry, Jules." With a wan smile, she took his arm. "Even when Aimee does cry - and she will - it won't last forever. The tears of an orphan may seem incessant, but they do stop. Eventually."
A slight pressure on his arm and a step forward gave him enough of a signal to escort her back into the main cabin of the Gondola. He took the hint, his expression bemused, and played the gallant. He was barely inside the door before Aimee dashed up to him, threatening the structural integrity of the ragdoll as she gestured wildly with it, trying to explain exactly what Passepartout and she had been discussing.
It was a relief, actually. With Verne distracted, Rebecca slipped quietly over to the stairs. His admission, yesterday, of the number and gender of his siblings hadn't so much surprised her as reminded her that their friendship was still new - there was much to be learned. To tell him more about her background now would be too much information, too quickly. Better to leave such discoveries to their own time.
Passepartout was at her elbow as soon as she reached the bottom of the staircase. "Miss Rebecca?"
He looked concerned - when would they learn to stop treating her like she was a china doll?
"I'm quite fine," she responded sharply, then caught her tongue. After all, if she was angry at herself for having lost control and become a sniveling ninny, there was no just reason to take out her anger on someone else, particularly Passepartout. "Thank you," she added softly, with an apologetic smile.
"I should be preparing the lunch today?"
"No, I think not." She glanced over at Verne, who seemed utterly absorbed in Aimee trying to repeat several words Passepartout had taught her, in a variety of languages. "Jules had an idea of spending the day shopping with Aimee. A trip to the park, perhaps, and luncheon." Rebecca turned her attention back to the valet. "We'd prefer you join us, if you'd like."
"I would be liking this very much." His grin was so infectious, she found herself grinning back. And then his eyes widened slightly. "Will be needing a picnic basket, to be eating lunch in the park?"
"Wonderful idea." Placing her hand on the stair railing, she took a step, and then paused. "I'll compose a note for Phileas - to let him know where we've gone. I'll tell him we're lunching in the park . . . perhaps he might meet us there?"
Passepartout looked down at the floor for a moment, as if considering. "I am thinking that I will be leaving a cold luncheon for Master Fogg in the kitchen." He looked up at her then, his expression grim. "Just in cases."
"That would be prudent." Her gaze moved to the sideboard and she noticed with some surprise that the decanter had been removed. "Passepartout--?"
He followed the direction of her gaze and said, "I have been in the moving of breakable things. With the little miss--?" He shrugged as if dismissing the matter, but was watching her from beneath lowered lids as if waiting for confirmation of her approval.
"Good thinking." Rebecca nodded, pleased to see him beam at her praise. It wouldn't stop Phileas from drinking if he got into one of his moods, but the lack of the decanter might give him pause, at least to reconsider that course of action. "There must be some solution to this," she said, realizing an instant too late that she'd spoken her words aloud.
"Is the little girl," answered Passepartout softly, giving a slight nod toward Aimee and Jules, who were examining the steering mechanism of the Aurora. "He know she is being afraid of him. He will be staying away until she has been leaving."
"Typical Phileas - he won't run from a fight he can't win, but will flee from a little girl at the first provocation." They shared a momentary look of commiseration, and then Rebecca sighed and proceeded up the staircase. Considering their options as she headed to her chamber to change her clothing did not improve her disposition in the least. She would attempt to sound out the exact nature of Verne's insult in as discreet a manner as possible, try to give Aimee a more positive, if biased, view of Phileas' character, and as for her cousin . . . .
Well, the child was right in one respect - there were times when he did behave like an utter and complete Philly-ass.
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End of Chapter Eight
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