Chapter 11

Once on board, Rebecca informed her cousin's valet that his master needed to wash his hair. She hurried to her room for a bottle, which she dropped into the startled man's hands. "Use this."

Phileas had not been the only Fogg whose hair went gray on them early. Rebecca had gotten teased in her mid-twenties when Erasmus had found a few strands of white. The imp had pulled them out to show her. The pain of having her hair pulled had been bad enough, but the damage to her vanity earned her ungentlemanly cousin several missiles tossed his way. This rinse was David's color and was said to be strong enough to keep her fiery red hair as is, no matter how much gray replaced it.

Passepartout took the rinse to his master's room, knowing full well what it was. When they made trips to Paris, he was the one who received the shopping list, and he was the one who had to deal with the grand, surly hairdresser to purchase it. His master said nothing, just subjected himself to the process.

The valet was very careful in the application. Scrubbing the excess out of the skin would not be comfortable. When that was done, Passepartout combed and styled the fire-colored head to the example of the missing David Fogg's preference. Then he turned his attention to the rest. He shaved away his master's much-loved sideburns. He stepped back when done and found a younger man in his master's place.

Phileas looked into the mirror that Passepartout handed him in disbelief. His younger cousin David stared back at him. Rebecca's words about distinguishing differences stunned him. Phileas straightened his posture, took on the authoritative attitude of a captain of the Army, and considered the way his cousin walked and gestured.

The younger man had few hand gestures. His hands normally laid his sides or were clasped behind his back in a loose imitation of parade rest. When sitting, the fingers laced together in his lap or over a knee. David's expressive gestures came mainly from the set of his head and mouth. David cocked his head slightly to the right and smiled anytime he addressed a woman, be she a relative, a friend's wife, or a housemaid. Around Irene, the tilt was more exaggerated, as if readying for a kiss. At the rate the two had been wandering off together, it had been a mystery how David kept from getting an ache holding that expression.

At other times, David held his head straight with the jaw tilted up when relaying facts or giving orders. In friendly camaraderie, his cousin was chin down as if resting it on his cravat.

David's posture, no matter what the head angle was, was soldier straight and tall unless excessively tired or several brandies into his cups. At those times, David feigned straight and tall, leaning against a wall or into a high-backed chair. The largest part of the younger man's life had been spent in the military. Phileas took that as his example.

Next, Passepartout helped Fogg into the clothing the innkeeper had produced. These were his cousin's own belongings, all new. The innkeeper claimed he kept a set type of clothing ready bought locally to replace any missing or damaged items from the previous visit. David ran through a lot of shirts and coats, spending his nights in barns or woods, if his enemies were hounding him. Sword fights and getting shot didn't help.

David's pants turned were black wool, warm and practical, with a matching waistcoat. The boots were Hessians of his size, which suited Phileas just fine. It was a style he regretted the loss of. The two shirts in the bundle were white linen with full sleeves. A few black cravats were folded in the pocket of the black wool coat. The entire outfit was up-to-date fashionable, but fit loosely to allow comfort. A hooded traveling cloak finished his cousin's attire off.

Phileas looked himself over in the full-length mirror when Passepartout had finished with his cravat. "It is a highwayman's outfit," he said. "All that is missing is a mask, rapier and pistols."

"Things your cousin carrying when wearing bandit's clothes. No?" Passepartout added hopefully.

"Yes," Phileas confirmed. He went to the weapons cabinet in Passepartout's laboratory, pulling out his double holster and pistols. He asked Passepartout to see to the packing of extra equipment in saddlebags. The nearly outfitted highwayman, now satisfied with his attire, headed downstairs to get a sword and see what effect his disguise would have on Rebecca.


Rebecca had repaired to her own room to change into the clothing the innkeeper's daughter had offered her. The girl had been shorter than Rebecca, but they were about the same size. The outfit included a full black wool skirt with a heavy, thick waistband. It would come about midway between the knee and the ground. There were no stockings, just a pair of sturdy black walking shoes. A white linen knee length button up chemise with long sleeves took care of the rest of it and a black wool jerkin over that. It was a country girl's mode of dress, free of the restraints of her class, easy to wear.

Rebecca considered recreating the outfit with her own clothing, as none of it quite fit right; but changed her mind. There would be nothing in her wardrobe that could approximate this kind of clothing. Most of her dresses were of heavy silk. The wool dresses she had were not the same type of cloth and would be too colorful. There would be no way she could alter the skirt to allow it to open like she did her own clothing to accommodate the wearing of her leather suit with its handy equipment. That made Rebecca frown in frustration. She didn't like going into the field without her fighting suit.

The only accommodation this outfit had toward her use were the deep pockets on both sides of the skirt. With the jerkin, she would not have to wear a corset, allowing more freedom of movement. No, that wouldn't do. I need my corset. She went to her closet and used her own petticoats, the ones with the pockets for supplies. After dressing, she combed her hair into a simple style like the innkeeper's daughter's, which amounted to tying the top back with a ribbon to keep it out of her eyes. Her own stockings were added.

When she was all done, Rebecca filled all the pockets with what she could and put the rest of the less instantly needed items in the deep pockets sewn into her innermost petticoat ruffles. Everything else, including her fighting suit, she placed in a pile to be put into saddlebags.

Rebecca turned to her full-length mirror to see how it all came together. What she saw was a full transformation that turned a fashionable Londoner into a country miss. The black of the outfit made her hair glow in titan brightness. Her full figure swelled against the tight lines of the dress for all to see and appreciate.

Beauty is not always an asset in covert operations. Rebecca frowned at the lack of modest decorum. She took a black cape out of her wardrobe. It covered her to the floor and had a big hood to conceal her head. With a quick look at the mirror to check the subduing effect of the cape, Rebecca was–somewhat satisfied.


Going down the Aurora's spiral iron stair was impossible to do with stealth. Rebecca, who was standing near the steering ball, heard Phileas coming and waited for him to finish his descent before turning. When she heard a footfall on the deck boards, she turned, and the sight took her breath away.

Phileas was nowhere in sight. David stood there, looking at her. The younger, tall ex-soldier slowly walked toward her with his customary tilted smile and confident stride. His expression was soft and friendly and always gave the impression of an offered hug or maybe a request to kiss. His clothing was reminiscent of what he wore to London when she had first laid eyes on him. This one, however, was new, clean and gave him the rakish look of a gentleman of the road. Rebecca grinned in appreciation of the perfect transformation.

Phileas then returned out of nowhere when he asked how he looked.

Rebecca winced. David's English was not spoken with a London accent unless forced. His was an enigmatic Queen's English that did not offer any identifiable origin other than a hint of an upper-class education. Rebecca remembered him speaking with Mr. Gideon. With the Irishman, his English took on a Celtic tone, matching the other man's cultured regional accent. David must have used that man's voice as his standard.

"Think of Mr. Gideon's speech patterns. I think that would serve you better," Rebecca said. Phileas knew what she meant, but could not hope to emulate that voice after such a brief association.

The languages Phileas had learned over the years, he had learned to perfection out of a healthy attitude toward his own survival. Irish had never been a language he had considered overly useful. He had only learned it for ulterior purposes as a young teen.

"Breakfast is ready, master," Passepartout said.

Phileas stepped back to give way for Rebecca to precede him. She removed the cloak she had been wearing before sitting. When Fogg joined her at the table after laying his cloak aside, he got his first glimpse of Rebecca's disguise. Rebecca, thankfully, had turned away before the effect of what he had seen registered on his face. At first blush, it hit him as such a display of womanhood would any man. Then, remembering whom the female in front of him was, his second reaction included a potent dose of shocked sensibilities mixed liberally with righteous Victorian outrage.

The otherwise demure skirt would have been fine for a girl of twelve. Its show of ankle and calf was more than a woman of Rebecca's age should offer. The stockings she had added did nothing to reverse the flux passe. She would have better served herself wearing riding boots.

The blouse, if it was a blouse, Fogg wondered, did not make up for the lack of propriety in the skirt. Its drawstring neckline allowed a bit of cleavage to show. That, however, could be forgiven as the leotard of her fighting suit settled at about the same position. But the truly unforgivable thing was the jerkin she wore. She had a corset under it but was too small. The laces did not hold the front properly closed. It further caused her bosom to appear to be spilling out in an embarrassment of riches.

The shorter skirt's bell swayed rudely from side to side as she walked. He wanted to order Rebecca to stay behind. Her loose red hair only added emphasis to the loose morals of the outfit. The full effect was only slightly less indecent than her fighting suit and brought to mind tavern whores from the previous century.

One look at Passepartout's face as the manservant covertly surveyed his cousin's attire required Fogg to bite back both the sharp reprimand he intended and the equally sharp order for Rebecca to cover herself. Instead, Phileas sat down to breakfast, getting hold of his emotions while studiously avoiding further sight of her.

"The valet would be handled in private," Fogg promised himself. The woman before him, admittedly, could not be handled at all. Her cloak had been added to handle the upper indiscretion. The indecency of the skirt, however, could only be minimized by the suggestion of the fore-mentioned riding boots from her normal mission attire. That, he suggested after making sure his voice was free of reproach and reflected only an interest in her comfort over the use of borrowed shoes.

Rebecca, thankfully, accepted his suggestion with gratitude and no notice of his real motivation. If the opportunity presented itself, Fogg would get her other clothing. For now, he would have to bow to the need for authenticity and keep silent. The rest of the day was spent waiting for the sun to set and wondering if they should feign laryngitis.