Chapter 15

Rebecca Fogg headed home in a foul mood through foul weather. Never in her entire married life, not in her entire life, period, had Phileas Fogg ever stood her up. She had waited in her office for half an hour past the time her husband and Jules were supposed to have met her. She had then gone on to the restaurant thinking perhaps there had been some misunderstanding. That was of course absurd. Phileas was a man of detail. He would never forget where he was supposed to meet her.

No one waited for her there. Perhaps something bad has happened at home? But wouldn't Phileas or Jules have sent word to me? Of course, they would have.

Rebecca fought down the urge to cry on the way home. She hated this part of pregnancy. The queasiness of the early months was gone, thank God; but these middle months had her snappish and weepy. She couldn't stand how close to the surface her emotional state was. "This is not a cause for tears, Rebecca. Nor will it be necessary to act like a shrew to Phileas, assuming he has a good reason for missing our dinner and play. I have been looking forward to this all week. We were going to celebrate Jules's new book."

"Damn the man."

Rebecca opened the door of their home, expecting to find the two men in the study. It was empty. She dropped her sodden umbrella in the stand and hooked her cloak on the rack. She stripped her gloves off and unseated her hat as she moved to the desk, hoping to find a note. There was none.

The clock chimed the half-hour.

The curtain will be going up. I will not fall into a fit of disappointment.

Rebecca turned back to the foyer, dropping her hat and gloves on the table by the door and heading up the stairs. She silently opened the door heading across her room to the nursery. Her little jewel was fast asleep. Mary will be upstairs in Passepartout's room. Odd that. The man has been gone for years and I still think of the room as his.

Closing the door, Rebecca headed back to the hall. The adjoining door to Phileas's room would have been faster, children, kind enough to sleep through the night, should not be disturbed. The master's room had always been Phileas's private room in this townhouse, and Rebecca's room, the mistress's apartment, had been the smaller room, with the smaller room they had made into the nursery between which used to be her wardrobe. That had been the way the architect had always intended it. Sleeping arrangements were just a matter of choice and mood. At the far end of the hall was the guest room where Jules was staying.

As there were no sounds in the house, Rebecca assumed the men had left, but to some other destination than the planned.

"Damn them both." Rebecca huffed.

The knotted feeling of hunger in her stomach further fueled Rebecca's irritation. I should have stayed at the restaurant and eaten. Now I'm going to have to stand over a hot stove, queasy, while I cook something. No, I'll just have something cold.

"Damn them thrice!"

Upon returning to the hall, something, a sound… A smell? Something didn't feel right. Rebecca wasn't an active agent anymore, but she had been one too long to ignore instinctive responses. The agent in her had been nagging in the back of her mind from the moment she had stepped upstairs. Now, she gave it her full attention. She carefully headed to Phileas's room first, deciding to make sure he was not ill in bed. Rebecca grabbed the knob in the darkened hall–and pulled back. It was wet, sticky. Looking at her hand, she saw dark stains. On the floor, large drops led toward the guest room.

"Oh, my God!"

Rebecca raced to the room Jules was using. Had there been an accident? Were the men at the hospital? Was Jules or Phileas injured? Rebecca scanned the whole hallway as she moved. There was no blood heading down the hall to the stairs, only toward the guest room. Rebecca took lady of the house's privilege and entered the room without knocking.

Inside, she found Jules sitting on the bed with a towel wrapped around his hand. He was in bloodied clothing of a styling she had never seen him or any other man wear; but that was secondary to the fact that he was bleeding profusely from two places and looked near to fainting. Her first aid basket was open on the bed. He appeared to be attempting to bandage the hand while a badly wounded shoulder soaked his coat. Jules looked at her in a heartbreakingly helpless fashion, eyes glazed over in shock.

"Rebecca…" He called to her weakly, in obvious relief.

It was all she gave him a chance to say. Rebecca whirled around running up the stairs to the attic, calling for Mary.

Several hours later, Rebecca sat, watching Jules sleep. Mary had dressed fast to run for the doctor down the street at number four. It had been years since the kindly doctor had been called to this house in such a fashion, but he came straight over.

Rebecca shook her head, looking at the bandages. Two bullet wounds. Both times, the bullet had gone completely though. Jules wouldn't speak of what had happened while the doctor was in attendance. Once the physician was gone and he had been made comfortable, Rebecca demanded to know what happened and where her husband was.

The story came out in a jumble of nonsense. Time travel, future wars, and danger to people she had never heard of. It sounded more like one of his visions than reality. He seemed completely out of his mind from loss of blood, pain, and exhaustion. Add to that the medication the doctor had given him. Morphine does that. Tomorrow, after he has rested, I'll try again.

It was now nearly midnight. Rebecca wasn't tired. The surge of adrenaline I've been treated to still has me keyed up. Mary, sweet girl, brought me a tray before going back to bed. "Mr. Fogg's arrangement," she had said. "He thought you might need a small meal before bed."

Alright, Phileas, I forgive you, but where are you?

Rebecca stood, busied herself with picking up the room. Jules's coat was on the floor along with his ruined shirt and undershirt. They were all beyond repair. I will have to have them thrown out tomorrow. Rebecca caught the jacket at the wrong end. All the contents of his pockets hit the floor. Jingling change and fluttering of bits of paper scattered. She knelt by the bed to gather it all, frustrated for making more work.

The papers consisted of a railroad stub and an old grocery list. She held those in one hand while gathering the change in the other. The coins had an unfamiliar portrait on their faces. They were English but the portrait showed a man, not Queen Victoria's late uncle. The dates stamped on the coins were for the next century.