Epilogue
The Collins Contingent having returned happily to its home territory (with not a little relief on the part of both hosts and guests), peace reigned supreme at 221B The Esplanade, and the joint Heads of the Household sat on the couch, with books. Phryne reminisced over Agatha Christie's version of the Blue Train, comparing it unfavourably to her own experience on her way to meet Jack Robinson, who was, perforce, Coming After Her. Her feet were tucked underneath his legs. They were each savouring a Lagavulin.
"Jack?" She quirked a toe to get his attention.
"Hmm?"
"Do you want another one?"
"Whisky? I've not finished this one. Come to that, you've barely started yours. I know you've got some lost time to make up for after that nine months off, Miss Fisher, but steady on."
"Not a whisky. Another child."
His head snapped round at that, and he narrowed his eyes. For a moment he said nothing at all. Then he closed his book and put down his glass, in case any more earth-shattering events were about to occur.
It was as well to be careful with Miss Fisher around.
"Do you?" he asked.
Another pause. Even longer.
"She is rather marvellous," remarked Phryne, hesitantly. She was gazing at him very fixedly.
"From what I hear of the amount of time it took Gid and Meggie to sleep through the night, I'd say our Elizabeth is little short of miraculous," Jack agreed blandly. There was a right answer to the question she'd asked, and he was damned if he knew what it was. He decided to cast for more clues. "Though, there are two of them, so they probably kept each other awake. For the company."
There. Two options. Company for Elizabeth, or more sleepless nights. Which would she choose?
"Oh! Yes, of course. They would have chatted away all night, wouldn't they?" she said. Chattily. Then, switching her gaze to the fire, "I suppose it might be … quite a disruption for Elizabeth … if we were to have another … do you think?"
This wasn't getting any easier. Was she really angling to try again? It didn't seem likely, but – Mrs Robinson had made something of a specialism of The Unlikely. Marriage, for example, sprang to mind.
He gave up guessing, and went for honesty. Putting down his book, he reached across and plucked her drink and book from her hands, placed them on the table and drew her round to nestle across his lap, her head resting on his arm. For good measure, a gentle kiss was placed upon her lips – a precautionary olive branch.
"Phryne, my love, a few years ago, I was living alone. I was estranged from a wife I hadn't had more than a civil conversation with in months; I'd decided that the best I could hope for was to be a half-decent copper who might end up on his deathbed with the complete works of Shakespeare in his head and the Bach Forty-Eight at his fingertips."
Her hand reached to examine his fingertips; he could almost see her assessing their capacity (or lack of it) for Preludes and Fugues. He let her play, and carried on, in a lower voice, because it seemed that emotion would do that.
"Since you – erupted – into my life, you've turned my grey to gold. You've loved me, and taught me to love you. Every single day has been brighter, more sharply focused, because of you. On top of everything, you've given me the child I imagined was impossible."
He removed his hand from her caress, and traced a thumb gently around her lips. Her eyes were sparkling with what might have been a sheen of tears.
"Phryne, I struggle to imagine a life any more perfect than mine, right now. If you want to have another child, I have to say I'm amazed, but we'll do our best – if that's what you want. Otherwise …" his eyes darkened as she opened her mouth to draw his thumb between her teeth, the sparkle of her eyes becoming a glint of pure wickedness, "I think we should allow our use of the bedroom to revert to … purely recreational pursuits."
She drew her head back, allowing his thumb to fall from her lips and turning her head to kiss the palm of his hand.
"Recreational? Playing games with me, Jack Robinson?" she asked sternly. He nodded slowly. She slid across his lap and drew herself, with immense dignity, to her feet, before stalking to the doorway, where she turned and grasped the two door handles, drawing them towards her.
"In that case …" she said quietly, stepping over the threshold and pulling the doors to frame her face,
"Last one to the boudoir's a rotten egg!" The doors closed quickly, and a delicious chuckle accompanied scampering feet up the stairs.
The Rotten Egg grinned, downed his drink, loosened his tie, and gave chase.
A/N
As the boudoir door closes and the rest of us are left looking at each other and trying not to listen to the squeals and giggles (and not from the nursery, where Elizabeth Jane sleeps the sleep of the so-far-mostly innocent), I feel I should add my voice to the others in this lovely world that are (no, that wasn't a thunderclap, it was just Phryne's dressing table stool falling over. Do pay attention) raised in support – I SAID RAISED IN SUPPORT – sorry, didn't mean to shout, I think they've stopped now – where was I? Oh yes, in support of the Kickstarter project to get our Silver Lady, the Honourable Phryne Fisher, to the Silver Screen.
It's tremendously exciting (no, not that sort of exciting, Jack. Oh, for heavens' sake, all right, carry on, but I am trying to keep people's attention here and you're not helping. Nice robe. The whisky's over there, behind the gin bottle, where you left it. And find a comb, Inspector, do) to see the outpouring of support from all of Miss Fisher's fans around the world, and I can't wait to see what Every Cloud brings us. I'm in – are you?
Oh, heavens. I don't think the rug in the boudoir is designed for that kind of treatment. Surely that's got to be sore on the knees?
Tell you what, let's all go to the Windsor and leave them to it. I'll tell Mr Butler they can join us at the Green Mill later, Jack still hasn't seen That Dress, after all. Come on, folks, the Negronis are on me!
Yours aye,
Miss T x