Thank you all, again, from the bottom of my heart. And Mary Frances, the marriage situation really is a little bit... unclear. In short, Phryne and Jack "eloped" (or rather, went away and claimed elopement when they got back) because, for a variety of reasons, they didn't want a legal marriage but needed to do something to head off the gossip. So they "eloped" and have been using Fisher-Robinson socially ever since as part of the pretext, but an adoption in the era would not be granted to both of them without a legal marriage. It was hypothetically possible that one of them could adopt him as a "single" person, but from a social perspective is unlikely to have been granted.
Phryne did not precisely regret her words; it was the right thing, she was oddly certain of that. But that was not enough to stave off the growing sense of dread in her stomach as the luncheon wore on. She tried to catch Mac's eye as they began to eat, but when her oldest friend came over she found she could not give her thoughts voice and asked her a question about the hospital instead. She was all charm and grace through the meal and the conversation after, though she watched Jack with half a mindful eye. He did not seem quite himself; she would have thought him relieved by her suggestion, if not outright happy. But he was quiet, and almost seemed to avoid looking at Anthony the entire afternoon. When Ivy needed a ride to the train station immediately after lunch—it was the last train that would allow her to make her connections and arrive at her mother's house for Christmas day—he jumped to offer his assistance, and even his sedate driving pace could not quite account for how long he took to return.
As the day wore on the company dwindled, until the only one left was Mairi. She said her goodbyes to Jack and Phryne and moved to the kitchen with Mr. Butler, intending to help with the last of the baking for the following day before returning to the flat. Jack took Anthony to bed—Phryne tried very hard not to let her roiling stomach show on her face when he waved good night—and Jane played on the piano briefly before heading upstairs herself. She kissed Phryne on the cheek and made a quip about Father Christmas arriving soon; though she knew Jane had been too old to believe when she joined the household, Phryne had always given the pretext that Santa filled Jane's stocking. It was a small thing, and silly, but both of them knew all too well the experience of empty socks and bare trees.
Waiting for Jack's return, Phryne curled into a chair and attempted to read; she spent more time staring at the flames in the fireplace. Eventually there was a cough behind her and she looked up to find Jack had made his way into the parlour.
"Should we…?"
"Talk?"
His lips quirked.
"I was going to suggest we finish wrapping the gifts," he replied. There was the evasion again.
She unfurled from her seat, folding the corner of her page down to mark her place, and headed up the stairs. The gifts were in their bedroom; many of them were wrapped when they were purchased, but a handful were not. Wrapping them with Jack had become something of a tradition after that first Christmas in London; it inevitably ended with her challenging him to find the bow she'd secured somewhere around her person and unravel it sometime around midnight. She had the unwrapped parcels and the paper spread across the floor by the time Jack joined her, and they began wrapping in silent tandem. The swish of scissors through paper and the crinkle as a box was wrapped were the only sounds for some time.
"What do I have to do to make you talk?" she eventually asked.
"Phryne…"
"Jack."
"Have you thought this through?"
His tone was too rough; she didn't like it. She didn't like the way her stomach clenched at his question, either.
"I might be impulsive, Jack, but I'm not completely foolhardy," she said, raising one eyebrow coolly.
His hands on a half-wrapped package stilled.
"I didn't mean—There's a lot to consider, that's all. And that's just the logistics, never mind what comes after."
"Logistics such as?"
"Marriage, Phryne," he blurted out, clearly agitated. "Have you thought about what that would mean?"
"Nothing that we haven't already negotiated."
He shook his head, and she knew. She knew what he was about to say, what he was about to ask of her, and she had no intention of hearing it.
"I knew you didn't consider this a marriage."
It was a harsh sentiment, but true.
"That's because it's not," he countered, then softened. "I have never asked you for promises. But if you make them, then yes I want you to keep them. And if you can't or won't, I need to know that too."
"And what about you, Jack? Will all my worldly goods become ours? Will you expect me to obey?"
"Of course not," he said quietly. "I would never—"
"Why not?" she challenged, hoping he would see how absurd this situation was. "Those are part of the vows, aren't they?"
"I have no intention of asking you for something that you would not give—"
"You clearly have no intention of taking something that was given freely," she interjected. "And yet you are asking for my fidelity?"
"You're right," he said, the presents before them entirely forgotten. "I don't know why I even bothered."
As much as she would have liked to leave the matter at that, it could not go unaddressed.
"Because it's important to you."
"Most likely, yes."
"And you don't trust me," she concluded.
He leapt up, raking a hand through his hair.
"I trust you. I trust you to keep the promises you've made."
"But when it comes to monogamy, you hope to... rescind your offer and change the terms of this promise?"
"Marriage is a change to the terms of that promise, at least to me," he said, voice lowering to a near growl. It would have frightened her once, to hear that tone from a lover. But she knew Jack's voices; the clipped crispness of real anger was not there, just frustration.
"Why?"
It had never mattered before, not since the day they had laid entangled beneath the sheets and discussed their return to Melbourne. " Be discreet, be honest, but be yourself," he had murmured against her hair, and that had been enough.
"Why?" she asked again.
"Because that's what marriage is, Phryne. I can't… I can't feel like you're just waiting for something better to come along."
"And the fact that I've never taken you up on that offer, not once in nearly three years, that doesn't mean anything? It has to be all or nothing?"
"It means everything. If I thought I was asking you to give up some vital piece of yourself...no, I would never. All I am asking is that you understand that, to me, this—"
"This is real, and you were just taking second best without a murmur because you thought it was the only offer you'd get?"
"No!" His entire body recoiled, every line tense. He shook his head adamantly. "I...I need a couple of minutes."
He beat a hasty retreat from the room; Phryne watched the door shut quietly behind him and blinked back tears. Damn the man. She had not felt the need to take another man to bed since she'd taken up with Jack, but that did not preclude the possibility she might. And what would be the outcome then? Either she would resent Jack for the restriction or betray his trust; she could not bear the thought of either. Not over a silly bit of paper.
—
Jack shut the door quietly behind him—Phryne was the sort who appreciated a well-slammed door when she was frustrated, but he did not—and moved downstairs. It might have been the height of summer, but he felt the need for cocoa and silence; his head was swimming. Why did she insist on being so damned stubborn? It wasn't unreasonable, after all; and then to throw out that tired argument about the money on top of it, as if they hadn't gone around and around on the matter.
There were things marriage was—a partnership, a shared intimacy, a promise—and things it was not—an opportunity to exert control, to begin with—and he'd spent well over a decade distinguishing between the two. And he'd been quite happy without the whole mess, if he were honest; sure he might occasionally use the pretense to his advantage, but they had forged their own partnership with their own rules. With their own definitions of what it was and was not. And it had worked. It did work. Only now it wasn't working and the alternative….
He sighed and scrubbed at his face. It was no use. Turning on the range, he began simmering a pot of milk. He wouldn't, couldn't survive another marriage with broken promises. That was the truth; perhaps a better man could, but he could not. And so that left them with… what? An argument with no resolution and a child without a home. He tried very hard not to think of the latter as he added the cocoa to the pan and whisked. He had not stopped to wonder whether that was even something he wanted.
(Every part of him screamed that of course it was, that part of him had wanted it from the very first night when he had walked in to find that Anthony was sitting on the nursery floor instead of some anonymous foster home, that he had somehow forgotten what it had been like to ache for a child all those years ago until life, until Ant, forced him to remember. He wanted it, but he knew that was not the same as meaning he could have it.)
He tested the pot—not enough cocoa; adding more, he continued to whisk. There was no point debating whether he wanted this madness; it would not come without marriage, and marriage could not come without agreement. And as Phryne had made abundantly clear, there was no agreement to be had. So, no marriage and hope like hell he hadn't just managed to ruin the best thing in his life. Marvelous. At least the cocoa was ready.
He sat down at the table, wrapped his hands around the mug and took a drink. It was warm and comforting and simple. He sighed appreciatively.
"I like your wife."
Jack jumped and turned towards the kitchen door, where his mother stood.
"You're still here?"
Mairi shrugged. "Tobias and I ended up playing cribbage," she said. "By the time it was over it was too late to go back to the flat; he put me up in a guest room."
"Ahh," said Jack, staring down at his mug.
"The point is, I like your wife. She donnae let you wallow the way Rosie did."
"I really do not want to hear about Rosie's failures as a wife right now, mum," he said, taking another sip.
Mairi came into the kitchen, rustling up some biscuits and offering the tin. They sat together in silence for several minutes, the only sound the heavy clink when Jack lowered his mug to the table.
"I dinnae dislike Rosie, despite what she thought," Mairi eventually said. "But you were always a sensitive lad and she let you stew in your own juices, at least for the little things, and then couldn't figure out why you dinnae tell her about the big ones."
"I'm not stewing," Jack said defensively over the rim of his mug. "I'm thinking things through."
"You've been 'thinking things through' all day, dearie. At this point you have to accept that either you won't come to the solution yourself or you're jes' going in circles and convincing yourself that you're right."
"Thanks, mum," he said dryly.
"My point is, I cannae see why you are down here weeping into your cocoa instead of talking with Phryne."
"Have you ever argued with that woman?" Jack asked, shaking his head in resignation. "There's no point."
"I said talk, not bicker," his mum said, plucking the now empty mug from his hand and placing it in the sink. "And I have not argued with her, but I spent most of your teen years arguing with you. I believe I can safely say that I am familiar with pointless arguments."
"Dan was worse."
Mairi laughed. "He was. That boy was ornery as hell and far too charming for his own good. But I do mean it—go talk to her. It will do you both good, even if you don't find the answers right away."
Jack sighed, pushing up from the kitchen table.
"You're both impossible, you know that?"
"I ken," Mairi said. "We have to be, to deal with you."
Jack chuckled and gave his mother a hug, then headed towards the door.
—
Phryne had finished wrapping all but the last gift when Jack returned. He opened his mouth as he stepped into the room, but Phryne held her palm up to stop his words.
"No," she said, standing and crossing the room to him. "No, this first."
And she kissed him, a kiss of warmth and familiarity and love.
"You had hot cocoa!" she accused when she pulled away. "And you didn't bring me any?"
He huffed a small laugh, the corners of his lip turning upwards.
"I didn't. Will you ever forgive me?"
Pretending to think, she kissed him again; a little more forceful this time, a challenge he met easily with one hand moving to span her back and press her against him. When it ended, they stood with their foreheads pressed together.
"Can we talk?" she said quietly. "Just… talk?"
He nodded, and she reached out to catch his hand in hers. A gentle tug and they moved to the bed, sitting side by side. She traced the veins on the back of his hand, trying to find the words. For once, he beat her to it.
"Phryne, I love you. And if things were different—if it wasn't my job and my reputation on the line, if my very existence didn't warrant censure in your circles—than we could be truly equal. But that's not the way things are, and I'm sorry for it. You have given up so many of your freedoms, and I am selfish enough that I don't regret that if it means we have this."
"That's good," she said, "because neither do I. That's not in question. You do know that?"
He nodded. "I know. The point is… the arrangement we have is not second best. It is the best option available, the one that grants us the most freedom. I'm not pining away for a marriage license, or too proud to take the money. I just—I'm not willing to take more."
"So you have kept boundaries for my sake."
"For both of us, yes."
"Even though I have explicitly said that those boundaries are not what I desire."
"I..." he sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. "I suppose so. It made much more sense in my head."
"It always does. And I was not, perhaps, as understanding as I could have been," she conceded; she knew that there had been times when she had assumed every distinction had been an intentional slight despite evidence to the contrary.
"Have I mentioned lately how disconcerting it is when you admit you were wrong?" he asked, and she giggled at his attempt to appear serious.
"It happens so rarely you don't have a chance to adjust."
He smiled at that; it still surprised her from time to time, how different he looked when he did, and she impulsively kissed the corner of his mouth before laying her head against his shoulder.
"Perhaps, then, an understanding?" she proposed. "This partnership—our household, our money—is freely shared with you because I want it to be. It is not an obligation; I don't do things out of obligation, aside from that incident with my father. I want you to… I don't expect you to avail yourself to it, and maybe that's why it is so easy for me to offer, but it is there if you ever need it."
"I know. I've never doubted that, Phryne."
"But I want you to try not to hold yourself separate," she requested, pulling back to watch his face.
He sighed, but nodded in agreement.
"None of this resolves the matter at hand," he said.
"Anthony?"
Jack flinched.
"Yes," he said, voice tight. "If we are going to… pursue your suggestion, then marriage is the only option. And God help me, marriage requires promises I have never asked you for. I cannot be in a marriage where it does not."
"Would it be so bad?"
"That's what a marriage is, Phryne."
He had said those exact words earlier, adamant that a marriage had to be a certain way. Not, she thought, his usual open-minded self.
"Why does it have to be? We've never bowed to convention before."
"Because if it's not—"
His jaw clenched, and she cursed her sudden insight. It happened sometimes, some tiny expression crossing his features telling Phryne everything she needed to know.
"Because if it's not, then it throws your entire marriage to Rosie into question," she said quietly.
Phryne considered Jack's ex-wife a friend, and knew that she and Jack had stayed in touch after her move to Sydney, but they rarely discussed the woman between them. She'd known enough to realise that Rosie had been courting that monster Fletcher at the same time Jack had clung to his marriage vows like a drowning man.
Jack nodded curtly. "Something like that."
"You can feel that way, darling, and that's fair," she said. "But you can't… you can't dictate what I do because of it. You can't let your fears or your nobility or your damnably rigid sense of duty define us. That is not fair. It's not fair on you, or me, or what we are together."
"And what are we together?"
Phryne shrugged. "We are whatever we want to be, and nobody gets to decide that but us."
His eyes closed, and he swallowed hard; she reached up to brush her thumb across his cheekbone, leaning in to catch his scent.
"We don't have to have all the answers immediately," she said. "Just so long as we are both willing to try."
"But you won't—"
"Don't ask that of me, Jack. Not that, not this way."
She watched his still face as he worked it through—a twitch of an eyelid, a quirk of a lip—and waited. Finally he exhaled loudly.
"Do you really want this?"
"I do," she said, swallowing her own lump of fear.
"Ed's on holiday in Queenscliff until the new year. We have that time to work through the details. And if it turns out that it is… not agreeable to either one of us, then it's not agreeable. No recriminations, no judgment."
"Never."
He nodded slowly, then opened his eyes.
"Should we finish the wrapping?"
